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CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 



V 





Novels by Isabel C. Cl arke 

Published by Benziger Brothers 

In same Uniform Series, each, net, $2.00; postage 15 cents. 
CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

A baffling romance of unusual plot revealing with dramatic tenseness the 
wages of apostasy. 

ANNA NUGENT 

“ Depicts to the life with consummate grace and sure art the interplay of 
love and faith and religion."— Ecclesiastical Review. 

VIOLA HUDSON 

“A striking story—a distinct addition to Catholic literature.”— Liguorian. 

CARINA 

“The greatest Catholic woman in fiction.”— Catholic Tribune. 

AVERAGE CABINS 

“ Belongs to the class of which there cannot be too many.”— Ave Maria. 

THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON 

*' Is told in Miss Clarke’s best style.”— Messenger of the Sacred Heart 

THE POTTER’S HOUSE 

“It abounds with her characteristically effective descriptive passages.” 
— America. 

TRESSIDER’S SISTER 

"The story is well and interestingly told,”— Catholic World. 

URSULA FINCH 

“ A love story that is both wholesome and delightful,”— Fortnightly Review. 

EUNICE 

" So charming in telling, so Catholic in spirit.”— Catholic Universe , 

THE ELSTONES 

“ The interest never flags.”— America. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER 

” Good fiction is richer for its advent.”— New World. 

CHILDREN OF EVE 

“ The narrative is powerful.”— Boston Evening Record. 

THE DEEP HEART 

" Altogether delightful, graceful and uplifting.”— Catholic Bulletin. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION 

" It is a thrilling setting handled with power ."—Ecclesiastical Review. 

FINE CLAY 

"Full of human interest, not a dull page.”— Western Catholic. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS 

*' The book is interesting throughout.”— Exponent. 

THE REST HOUSE 

*’ The interest holds down to the last line.”— Brooklyn Tablet. 

ONLY ANNE 

‘‘ A genuine welcome addition to Catholic fiction T—Ave Maria. 

THE SECRET CITADEL 

“ The plot is original and forceful.”— Magnificat. 

BY THE BLUE RIVER 

“ Full of charm and interest.”— St. Anthony Messenger. 




V 


CHILDREN OF THE 
SHADOW 

A NO VEL 


ISABEL C. £LARKE / 

Author of" Carina," etc. 



New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

1924 















/ 

Copyright, 1924, by Benziger Brothers 


Printed in the United States of America 


Affectionately Dedicated 
to 

PRINCESS GESINE DORIA-PAMPRILY 





CONTENTS 


Chapter Page 

I A Meeting and Its Consequences.. . 9 

II The Return of Eustace Wingrave.30 

III The Only Surviving Son. 47 

IV Undercurrents.60 

V The Shadow ..74 

VI Forbidden Fruit. 90 

VII Arranging a Marriage . . . ..118 

VIII Refusal.137 

IX The Shadow Deepens.156 

X Conflict. .176 

XI Sursum Corda.197 

XII Lady Pendre Remembers.214 

XIII At Glen Cottage.230 

XIV Reappearance of Martin Sedgwick ....... 255 

XV An Awkward Situation.282 

XVI Flight . . . ..307 

XVII Two Ceremonies ..331 

XVIII Anxiety. 348 

XIX In Rome.362 

XX “Habemus Papam”.381 

XXI Light on the Shadow.396 

XXII The Lifting of the Shadow .......... 411 


7 

























CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


CHAPTER I 


A Meeting and Its Consequences 

1 


A WIDE blue ribbon of water divided the two shores that 
lay low and shining and almost treeless opposite to each 
other. The mud flats were iridescent, in color a warm brown, 
but shot with rainbow hues and broken by long narrow slits 
of turquoise above which innumerable gulls flew and cried. 

The ribbon widened at last very beautifully into a sea that 
was hardly less blue. The long lines of surf were visible. 
So much space of sea and sky with the clouds forming Alp¬ 
like barriers on the horizon! . . . Northward were black 
clouds boldly castellated, suggesting linked magical fortresses. 
The wide sky was painted faintly turquoise, a pure almost 
impalpable color. As the wind dropped, the clouds looked like 
homing golden birds, flying slowly as if they had come from 
very far and were a little tired. 

The southern shore was flat and desolate as it neared the 
water. Its few trees grew aslant at an almost comic angle 
as if beaten by the ferocious gales that tormented that coast 
in winter. Here and there some lines of low squalid houses 
clinging together as if for protection, were grouped close to 
the gaunt hideous machinery, the unlovely mounds of slack, 
the tall rosy brick-built chimneys, that indicated the presence 
of a coal mine. 

Afar to the south, high wooded hills looked down upon that 
lonely flat coast, made almost beautiful in the February sun¬ 
light by reason of its delicate rainbow hues, suggesting indeed 
to traveled eyes the Italian Maremma in winter. 

9 


10 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

At the extreme end of the Pendre woods—so far eastward 
that from that point the river and not the sea was visible— 
there stood a young girl. She was about eighteen years old, 
but she was so slightly fashioned that with her short cut hair 
and skirts to her knees she looked hardly more than a child. 
Her face was small, too, like a child’s, and had something of 
a child’s eager winsome expression. The eyes were big and 
dark, and the hair, that barely reached her neck, was dark, 
too, and very thick. 

She walked up and down on the sodden grass. In her 
hand she held a little nosegay of snowdrops and early celan¬ 
dines; the silver and pale gold of the blossoms gave a touch 
of color and light to her dark winter raiment. 

It was half an hour since the train from Chester had passed, 
and long ago its blue smoke had melted into the wind-swept 
sky. He could not be here yet, but he would surely be here 
very soon. Vicky Wingrave consulted the watch on her 
wrist. As she did so, her face assumed a rather serious, 
obstinate expression. There was even a hint of defiance and 
mutiny about the compressed lips. Well, she had often enough 
defied the Powers in her short tempestuous life, but to-day’s 
act of rebellion was a more serious thing. She had embarked 
upon it deliberately, with a cold, determined courage that 
almost astonished herself. It was not a child’s heedless re¬ 
bellion, it was a woman’s first effort to strike a blow in her 
own defense. . . . 

Looked at like that, it was of course alarming. One 
couldn’t imagine what the outcome would be, supposing it 
were discovered. Vicky never minimized, even to herself, 
the intolerable perspicuity of her father, the first Lord Pendre 
of Pendre (or Pendry, as it was written in ancient docu¬ 
ments, consequently nothing annoyed the present holder of the 
title so much as having his name pronounced as if it rhymed 
with fender!). 

Vicky could never remember that a single one of her child¬ 
ish delinquencies had escaped that eagle glance. Where she 
was concerned, he had shown himself shrewd, vigilant and 
merciless. But perhaps never so merciless as on that day, 


A MEETING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 11 

now nearly two years ago, when he had banished Martin 
Sedgwick from Pendre. 

Nevertheless, he had reason on his side. His daughter was 
very young, almost a child, and unformed for her years. 
Martin, badly wounded in the War, did not then know if he 
would ever completely recover, or whether his prolonged sick- 
leave would finally merge into compulsory retirement from 
the army. His private means were small, and Vicky was the 
daughter of a man of immense wealth. How much Lord 
Pendre knew of the details of her poor little romance, Vicky 
never even tried to discover. Bereft of Martin, with her 
favorite brother Eustace still in Iraq, she was too desolate 
and miserable to inquire. 

Suddenly a figure emerged from the woods to the east, and, 
seeing Vicky, ran swiftly toward her. Tall, lithe, young, with 
flaxen hair and very bright blue eyes, Martin was beautifully 
typical of Anglo-Saxon youth. 

Vicky put out her hand and felt it tightly grasped. She 
was trembling now from head to foot. 

Over there on the mud flats the narrow turquoise pools were 
vividly blue. The air seemed full of silver, flashing wings as 
the sea-gulls circled above them. She was alone with Martin, 
and she lifted her face to receive his kiss. 

He pulled her hand comfortably within his arm, and they 
walked a few paces to the right and entered the wood. There 
they sat upon a bank heaped high with brown crisp leaves, 
through which slim strong green sheaths were thrusting their 
impetuous way. 

It was very still. Through a break in the brown boughs 
they could see the pale, shining line of the river between its 
two stretches of iridescent sand. Beyond, low green hills 
lifted their faint silhouettes against the pale, pure blue of the 
spring sky. 

They sat there for some minutes in silence. 

“I was so afraid something would stop you from coming,” 
said Vicky, at last. 

She had the sense now of being inadequate, too lacking in 
experience, to deal with a situation at once so simple and so 


12 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

complex. There had been a certain element of childish dar¬ 
ing mixed with her share in the escapade. But Martin was 
much older; he had passed his twenty-seventh year, and his 
face showed her that he was resolute and serious. She found 
herself suddenly afraid, not of her father, but of Martin. 

The months that had passed since their last meeting had not 
been an easy time for him. There had been at first an inter¬ 
change of letters—Vicky’s letters were rather wonderful 
things—she had a gift of self-expression that had astonished 
him until he suddenly realized that it was the outcome of her 
repressed condition. Lord Pendre had in an evil hour dis¬ 
covered the correspondence. Vicky was in disgrace. Martin 
received his own little bundle of letters, with a furious addi¬ 
tion from Lord Pendre accusing him of having violated all 
the laws of hospitality by making love to his daughter, who 
was still in the schoolroom, and forbidding him either to 
approach her or write to her again. And now, somehow, the 
impossible had happened—for an hour or two they were 
together, here in the Pendre woods, where their little romance 
had first been inaugurated. 

“And I never thought you’d come,” said Martin, softly. 

He could imagine the difficulties she must have combated to 
come hither alone. And always he had been afraid that she 
might in the end shrink from the risks involved. To see her 
there, pale, determined, almost callous in her courage, in¬ 
creased her value in his eyes. He only wished that it had been 
possible to take her away forever from all risks, all danger. 

. . . He drew her a little closer to him so that her head rested 
lightly on his shoulder. Vicky was conscious of something at 
once tender and protective in his attitude. His strangeness 
seemed to diminish. It was like being with Eustace, only with 
an added excitement she could not analyze. 

Martin was watching her. She was more beautiful than 
she had been eighteen months ago; she was more womanly 
too. She made him think of some wild white woodland flower, 
tender and supple but full of an almost stern life. He loved 
her, but this afternoon he was bitterly conscious of Lord 
Pendre’s point of view. Vicky was so very young and inex- 


A MEETING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 13 

perienced, she had no knowledge of the world, she answered 
to the call of his love like some shy homing bird. It had been 
so fatally easy to teach her to love him. And now he could 
do nothing but leave her here while he went to join his regi¬ 
ment in Malta. It didn’t seem fair, and it was certainly not 
wise. 

‘Well, what’s it been like ?” he asked, smiling at her. 

“Putrid,” said Vicky, laconically. “The only nice thing 
I’ve got to look forward to after to-day is that Eustie is com¬ 
ing back. We expect him the day after to-morrow. And 
he’s going to retire. I can hardly believe it. We only had 
the telegram a few days ago.” 

“I’m so glad for your sake. You’ll have someone—” 

“Yes. I do hope and trust that he won’t fall in love with 
Pamela!” 

“My dear child, how you do rush off to meet possible 
disasters!” 

“But it’s so likely, isn’t it? Dad wants it, I’m certain. It’s 
sickening to see the way she twists him round her little 
finger.” 

“I don’t know Eustace well, but I shouldn’t think he was 
the kind of man to be taken with that cold statue.” 

“One never knows. Phip was,” said Vicky, ruefully. 

“My dear—she was out to kill something!” 

“I suppose she was. But look at Dad—how she’s got round 
him. Pamela’s got some queer power. I’m afraid of her.” 

“Well, anyhow, you must do your best to prevent it from 
happening,” said Martin. 

“I pity Eustace,” said the girl, suddenly; “he’ll hate it all 
so now. Being the eldest son—going into the works—know¬ 
ing he’s got to be Lord Pendre one of these days. Unless, of 
course, he dies before Dad.” 

“He’s got lots of time to get accustomed to the idea,” said 
Martin, who only wished for wealth because it could bring 
him nearer to his heart’s desire. Not only for a snatched 
hour like the present, but permanently, till life itself ceased. 
“Some people wouldn’t think it such a bad billet.” 

“Eustie wants so dreadfully to be free,” said Vicky. “And 


14 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


we used to plan to go away together—to the colonies, perhaps 
—and live in some wild place where there was no one to 
grumble at us, or scold us, or forbid us to do the things we 
wanted to do.” 

“But I think I should try to prevent your going off with 
Eustace,” he reminded her. “I want you myself, Vicky. I 
want you very badly. And if I had half Eustace’ wealth we 
shouldn’t have to wait another week.” 

She drew a little away, and looked at him. He was not 
smiling now, and his fair face was set and stern. With Vicky, 
love was enough, and if she could only have seen Martin 
thus for an hour or two every day, she would have been 
perfectly contented. Now she realized that this no longer 
sufficed for him. He was suffering because of the continued 
separation. The uncertainty of the future dimmed even his 
pleasure at being with her now. He wanted more than love. 
Marriage, with a home to be shared by Vicky. . . . Children 
perhaps. . . . Vicky’s elder sister Barbara was married and 
had a little boy. Did Martin really want all of that? The 
unknown held terrors for Vicky, but this hour of simple love 
was very sweet and satisfying. She wished that Martin 
could be contented too. 

“When do you start, Martin?” she asked. 

“Friday. I shall want to write to you, Vicky—I shall want 
to hear from you! How on earth are we to do it ?” 

Vicky shook her head. 

“I must ask Eustie. He might think of a plan. He might 
write to you even if I can’t. I don’t think I could face a row 
like the last.” Her face flushed. “I’m afraid of Dad, Martin. 
Mortally afraid.” 

“When I first came to Pendre I thought you must all be 
the most madly happy people in the world, except for losing 
Phip,” said Martin, thoughtfully. “You had everything. And 
now—I think I pity you more than anyone, Vicky. You and 
your mother.” 

“Oh, Mummie’s happy enough,” said Vicky, easily. 

“Happy? I’d never call her that,” he said, gazing straight 
before him at the flashing wings of the sea-gulls. 


A MEETING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 15 

“She never seems to mind much what happens. It doesn’t 
affect her. He’s awfully decent to her,” said Vicky. 

They sat there in silence for some little time longer. Vicky 
wanted to savor the perfection of the hour; she could do this 
best if they didn’t talk, but just sat there, their hands linked, 
while she was conscious of a nearness and sympathy that 
permeated all her being. It could only last at best a very short 
time. Soon she would have to return to Pendre, slinking in 
like a thief, afraid of being observed. And Martin would 
have to walk back down the hill and wait at the little way- 
side station for the train. He could not risk staying till a 
later one, and if Vicky were out beyond a certain hour her 
absence would inevitably be discovered. 

“Vicky, swear you’ll marry me. Don’t let anyone come 
between us!” 

His voice was hoarse, and his blue eyes were very bright 
with a kind of steely, menacing brightness. 

“Of course I’m going to marry you. The only fear is that 
you may get tired of me. I’m so young—you’re sure to meet 
heaps of prettier, cleverer girls.” She clung to him a little 
now. “/ should never let anyone come between us.” 

“I used to think that blighter Ernest Soames was beginning 
to fall in love with you!” 

“Mr. Soames? Why, he’s forty—he’s nearly as old as 
Mummie. As if I’d marry him!” 

She laughed. Martin must indeed be jealous to entertain 
such a possibility as that for a moment. 

“Now you’re running to meet disasters,” she said. 

His face relaxed a little. “I’m so glad to hear you say 
that. But I’m sure Lord Pendre’s thought of it.” 

“Oh, you’re quite mistaken, Martin. You really are. He 
did want to marry Barbara once, you know, but she wouldn’t 
look at him.” 

Martin struggled to his feet. That particular ghost seemed 
to be satisfactorily laid, but to go away for a year, perhaps 
longer, leaving Vicky at a highly impressionable age, was 
simply in his eyes to court danger. He didn’t doubt her love, 


16 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

but she was a mere child; she hardly knew the meaning of 
the word. 

He put out his hands and she crept into his arms. 

“Vicky—Vicky—darling . . .” she heard him murmur 
brokenly. 

“Martin 

He tore himself away at last and sped down the hill. Vicky 
stood there, pale, motionless, watching that retreating figure. 
She felt spent and exhausted with emotion, from that sus¬ 
tained, fierce embrace. She went back into the wood, sat on 
the bank of dried leaves and wept softly. 

2 

Dusk had fallen when Martin reached the little station, that 
stood almost a stone’s throw from the shore. It was not yet 
quite time for the train, and he paced the platform while the 
wind, which had now risen, howled in the telegraph poles and 
scourged his face with a rough though friendly violence. But 
he did not heed it. His thoughts were full of Vicky—the 
wonder-child whom he had learned to love during those long 
weeks of arduous convalescence he had spent at Pendre nearly 
two years ago. He had come there as Phip’s friend—he had 
been with Phip when he was killed, had brought his body 
back at great personal risk. And for this reason Lord Pendre 
had invited him to stay with them after he left the hospital. 
Vicky was in the schoolroom then, in the care of Miss Brig- 
stocke, a kind elderly duenna who was very devoted to her. 
Miss Brigstocke had realized what was going on even before 
the two principal actors in the little drama had understood 
whither they were traveling. She had looked on and said 
nothing, and had nearly lost her place in consequence. The 
incipient love-affair was discovered and quenched. Martin 
was banished. The chief of the storm had fallen upon Vicky’s 
frail but rebellious little figure. 

Martin longed to know if she had reached home in safety. 
Perhaps somehow she would contrive to send him word. But 
she was closely watched. Lord Pendre’s vigilance was never 


A MEETING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 17 

relaxed. Having discovered where danger lay, he was the 
last man to minimize it. It would be very difficult for Vicky 
to let him know how she had fared. . . . 

Presently the train came slowly in sight. The great black 
engine puffed its way into the station. Doors were flung 
open, and from a first-class carriage a tall agile form stepped 
down. The flickering lamps revealed a dark and swarthy 
face, black-bearded, with somber eyes. For a moment the 
two men stood face to face. Their eyes met, the black as well 
as the blue afire with anger. 

Lord Pendre gave no sign of recognition beyond that steady 
disdainful stare, enveloping, contemptuous. 

Martin pulled open the door and got into the train. 

“Of course he’s bound to find out now,” he thought, un¬ 
comfortably. 

All of a sudden he felt afraid for Vicky. This man had 
a temper that was a byword in the neighborhood, and all her 
short life he had wreaked his wrath upon Vicky. As a little 
child, he had put down her tendency to mutiny and rebellion 
with an iron hand. But it was nonsense—he couldn’t ill- 
treat her now, or subject her to physical violence. Neverthe¬ 
less Martin shrank a little before the thought of their meet¬ 
ing this evening. Lord Pendre would guess that he was 
little likely to leave the neighborhood without communicating 
with or perhaps seeing Vicky. She would be questioned and 
interrogated till the truth was forced from her. . . . 

The train moved out of the station, and across the dark 
mud flats and the shining strip of river Martin could see the 
lights shining in friendly groups from the opposite shore. 
He went to the other window and looked out. The Pendre 
woods were leaning dark and somber against the clear pale 
evening sky. 

3 

Lord Pendre drove back home in his swift motor-car 
through the darkened lanes and roads, his thoughts full of 
Vicky and Martin Sedgwick. At first it seemed impossible 


18 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


to believe that his daughter could so far have defied and dis¬ 
obeyed him as to make an actual assignation with Sedgwick. 
That would constitute an almost incredible demand upon her 
courage. She might not love her father, but Lord Pendre 
did flatter himself that she was afraid of him. And yet— 
and yet—there had been always something elusive about 
Vicky—something that slipped past him, and could not be 
held or dominated, or even ultimately subdued. Her mother’s 
spirit, perhaps. It did not suit Lord Pendre to examine the 
matter too closely. But as he reflected upon it now, his 
harsh face grew a little cruel. Vicky must learn sooner or 
later that he was her master. 

The lights of Pendre were shining as he approached the 
house, which looked like an immense pile of amorphous stone 
in the darkness that had now fallen. As he stepped out, 
briskly despite his sixty odd years, he gave an order to the 
chauffeur for the following day and then passed into the 
great hall with its blazing fire. 

As a rule he always sought his wife directly he returned 
home, and from habit he was on the point of going into the 
library, where she would almost certainly be found. Sud¬ 
denly he checked himself, went through a door leading to a 
passage on the left, mounted a secondary staircase and 
entered the schoolroom. 

Miss Brigstocke was sitting by the fire knitting. She put 
down her work and rose as he came in. She looked at him 
inquiringly. His visits to her were very rare, and she had 
known that he had gone to St. David’s Bay that morning, 
traveling thither by train. He had left Pendre quite early. 

He was rather a formidable-looking person with his black 
hair and beard, both slightly sprinkled with grey, his flashing 
black eyes under their broad dark eyebrows. Never in the 
least handsome, there was something titanic about him which 
gave him a certain, almost sinister, attraction. He was tall, 
very broad-shouldered, with a suggestion of overwhelming 
strength. Not one of his four children had inherited that 
mighty physique, indeed the two younger ones, Eustace and 
Vicky, were rather below middle height. 


A MEETING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 19 

He glanced round the room as if to ascertain that they 
were alone, then he said: 

“Where’s Vicky?” 

“She’s in her room, Lord Pendre,” answered Miss Brig- 
stocke, becoming aware from the tone of his voice that he 
was in what the servants called “one of his rages.” 

“In her room ? How long’s she been there ?” 

Miss Brigstocke glanced nervously at the clock and then 
said: “Since tea, I think.” 

“Was she out this afternoon?” He continued his cross¬ 
questioning with increased ferocity. 

“Yes. In the woods.” 

“Alone?” 

“Yes. I’ve got a cold—I was sorry I couldn’t go with her. 
She wanted a walk.” The sentences came hurriedly, un¬ 
convincingly. 

“Did you know that she’d gone to meet Sedgwick?” he 
demanded. 

Miss Brigstocke flushed darkly. She had not known it, 
and the suggestion came to her as a disagreeable surprise. 
Vicky had entreated her not to ask any questions. But there 
had been something secret, some mystery, attached to that 
walk of hers, made as soon as luncheon was over. 

She hadn’t been back more than half an hour, and she had 
come in looking very white and exhausted, as if she had 
emerged from some rather shattering emotional crisis. She 
had swallowed a cup of tea and then gone to her room. She 
wanted to rest, she said, before dinner. 

“No, I’d no idea of it,” said Miss Brigstocke, after a brief 
pause, during which she felt her heart sink into her boots. 

“Well, then, she’s been meeting him this afternoon,” he 
said. “I saw him myself at the station. He got into the 
train as I got out. But he saw me. The fellow looked like a 
thief, so I knew he’d been prowling round here after Vicky.” 

Miss Brigstocke was silent. There was really nothing to be 
said, and she had the feeling, too, that any interpolation from 
herself might make matters much worse. 

“I’m not going to have it!” he said, raising his voice a little. 


20 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“I’ve got very different views for Vicky. I thought she was 
too much of a child to think about marriage, but if she’s been 
meeting that man in Pendre woods, I will soon arrange some¬ 
thing for her.” 

He set his lips in a hard straight line. 

“I’m very sorry ... I can’t believe she did meet him. 
She knows your wishes so well,” murmured Miss Brigstocke, 
soothingly. 

“Well, she may have done it this once, but she won’t do it 
again in a hurry. And, Miss Brigstocke—you seem to have 
forgotten the talk we had once before. You failed to look 
after her then, and you’ve failed again now. I can’t trust you 
to exercise that supervision which is so necessary in Vicky’s 
case. I’m afraid you must regard your engagement with us 
as terminated. From to-morrow if you please—or, say, the 
day after. I always intended to give you a pension and I shall 
still do so.” 

He went out of the room. 

4 

In a Slav vendetta the avenger does not attack the person 
upon whom he wishes to retaliate. His methods are more 
subtle, if a trifle more oblique. He injures, therefore—slays 
if possible—that one most beloved by the enemy upon whom 
he would wreak his vengeance. 

It was not in Lord Pendre’s power to injure or slay Martin 
Sedgwick, nor to subject his daughter to such drastic punish¬ 
ment as parents in less civilized times are alleged to have 
used. But in sending Miss Brigstocke peremptorily away, he 
struck a side-blow at Vicky that he knew would both grieve 
and pain her. 

Upon leaving Miss Brigstocke, who restrained her tears 
until he was well out of the room, he went down to the 
library. His wife was still sitting there with the tea-things 
in front of her. She was reading. Her face was curiously 
passive, with its dark grey eyes, its pale pure outlines, the 


A MEETING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 21 

thick brown hair growing so close to her brow that she always 
wore it dressed as simply as possible. 

“Giselda!” he said. 

She turned her head quickly, aware from the tone of his 
voice that something was amiss. 

“What is it, Hugo?” 

“Vicky has been out alone meeting Sedgwick!” 

The book slipped from her hand and fell with a little crash 
to the floor. She left it lying there. 

“Are you sure?” 

“Of course I’m sure. I saw the blighter getting into the 
train as I got out. He saw me too. I knew from his face 
what he’d been after. Meeting me must have been one of 
the nastiest surprises of his life!” 

He sat down in an armchair on the other side of the big 
fireplace, looking very grim and purposeful. 

“But that doesn’t prove anything,” she said slowly. “Un¬ 
less, of course, you’ve seen Vicky?” 

“I haven’t seen her. Miss Brigstocke says she’s resting. 
I’ll talk to her presently. In the meantime I’ve given Miss 
Brigstocke notice to quit. She’s here to keep an eye on 
Vicky, and as she can’t do that she’d better go.” 

Lady Pendre looked at her husband, aghast. 

“Are you serious, Hugo? You’ve sent Miss Brigstocke 
away after all these years? Ten years ! ...” 

There was now a faint but definite reproach in her voice. 

“In my long business career I have always found it as 
essential to get rid of the useless people as to keep the efficient 
ones,” he observed sententiously. 

“And, then, you don’t even know if they did meet—Vicky 
and Martin,” she remonstrated. 

“I shall jolly soon find that out when I have my little talk 
with Vicky.” 

He had finished his tea, replacing the cup on the table. 

Lady Pendre shivered. If Vicky really had—! But no, 
it didn’t seem possible. She was far too much in awe of her 
father to embark upon such a course of wilful rebellion. She 
knew exactly what he thought of Martin’s pretentions. And, 


22 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


surely, it was unlike Martin too—proud, fastidious, slightly 
disdainful—to return after the humiliating rebuff he had re¬ 
ceived not two years ago. 

Another aspect of the case struck her. Their love was per¬ 
haps too strong—too firmly established a thing—to permit of 
their accepting this arbitrary and enforced separation without 
resistance. It might be that it was too vital a thing, too fierce 
in its hold upon them. But she had never questioned Vicky 
on the subject, and she did not intend to do so now. 

“I hope you’ll find that you’ve been mistaken, Hugo,” she 
said at last. “And in any case—please let there be as little 
fuss as possible. I mean I’d rather Vicky wasn’t upset now 
. . .just when we’re expecting Eustace home. I’d like him 
to find things peaceable and harmonious.” 

“My dear, it’s impossible to pass this over in silence. Vicky 
has to be taught. I know she’s very difficult to manage, but 
I can always make her obey. I won’t have her running off to 
the woods to meet this young man—it’s hardly respectable. 
Supposing one of our neighbors—Soames, for instance—had 
seen her? What would he have thought?” 

“Does it matter so much what Mr. Soames thinks?” 

“It matters to me very much indeed.” He rose, and moved 
toward the door. “I shall send for Vicky to come down to 
my study. She must be quite rested by this time.” 

5 

Vicky received her father’s message not without alarm. 
So she had been discovered, and in a sense it was almost a 
relief to her, so keenly did she dislike anything that savored 
of intrigue or deceit. 

Her father by his harsh treatment of her had done his best 
to destroy that charming frankness of hers, but he had not 
as yet quite succeeded. Her first thought was, “I’m glad he’s 
found out something. He was bound to, sooner or later.” 

She got up, put on her dress, and went quickly down the 
stairs. It was not until her fingers touched the handle of the 


A MEETING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 23 

study door that a wave of fear swept over her. She had 
never felt so frightened before. Her father was waiting for 
her in there. She was deeply, bitterly conscious of his power 
over her. She thought of him as of some harsh autocratic 
figure of destiny. And he had decreed that she should never 
see Martin or love him or marry him. 

But the thought of Martin gave her courage, the touch of 
his hands that still seemed to linger upon hers, the hard 
strength of his arms, his set stern face. These two men were 
fighting for the possession of her. The knowledge made her 
feel very small and weak and inadequate. 

She opened the door and stood trembling upon the 
threshold. 

“Come in and shut the door,” commanded Lord Pendre. 

Vicky obeyed. Her knees were trembling, they seemed too 
weak to support her. There was something in the psalms, 
wasn’t there, about one’s bones turning to water? . . . 

She came a step nearer and laid her hand, for support, upon 
the back of a chair. If Lord Pendre had ever known pity, 
he must surely have felt it now. But that suave emotion 
had never touched his heart. People—sensible people—didn’t 
require compassion. He himself would have regarded it as 
an insult. 

“I met Sedgwick at the station,” he began blandly; “I pre¬ 
sume he came down to see you? I am going to ask you not 
to lie to me. It would be useless.” 

“I’ve never lied to you,” said Vicky, in a strange hoarse 
little voice. “He did come here to see me. He’s going to 
Malta at the end of the week. It was our only chance. You 
can kill me if you like!” she went on, with sudden passion, 
and emboldened by the conviction that Martin did truly love 
her. “But I shan’t care, now that I’ve seen him again!” 

“You have seen him for the last time, so make the most of 
it,” was her father’s retort. “I’m not going to have my 
daughter running out to meet young men in the woods. And 
I shall write and tell Sedgwick that I won’t have him skulk¬ 
ing about my property. Do you understand?” 


24 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


He rose now and stood close to her. In height she did not 
reach his shoulder, and at that moment she looked a mere 
slip of a girl, hardly more than a child. 

At first she thought he was going to strike her a crashing 
blow such as she had often suffered at his hands. But he 
only laid his heavy hand rather brutally on her thin shoulder 
and held her as if in a vice. 

It was to show her, perhaps, that he still possessed a phys¬ 
ical mastery over her, that he intended to govern her, and 
force her to submit to his will. 

“The first result of your conduct is that Miss Brigstocke’s 
got to go. If she can’t look after you, there’s no use in keep¬ 
ing her. She.assures me that she knew nothing, but that’s no 
excuse. She ought to have known. I’ve sent her away. So 
you see that you bring suffering on other people too by your 
disobedience and rebellion.” 

“You’ve sent Briggy away?” she exclaimed, almost as her 
mother had done. “Briggy, who’s been here . . . through 
everything? You can’t possibly be so cruel!” 

Beneath his thick beard she could see that he was faintly 
smiling. 

“Briggy, as you call her, is a sentry found asleep at her 
post. They get short shrift, you know.” 

The oblique vendetta had not missed its quarry. If anyone 
in the world besides Eustace had Vicky’s confidence it was 
Miss Brigstocke. And she on her side regarded her pupil 
with the tenderest, loyalest affection. The punishment would 
fall with nice apportionment upon the two. 

He felt her form quiver beneath his iron hand. 

“Oh, you are cruel!” she breathed, her eyes and cheeks 
flaming. 

The hand tightened its grasp of her. 

“I advise you for your own sake not to speak to me like 
that!” 

She broke free from him then with a supreme effort, sud¬ 
den, impulsive. 

“You can’t prevent my marrying Martin. We have prom- 


A MEETING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 25 

ised to marry each other. He’s going away now, but when 
he comes back-!” 

“When he comes back he will probably find you very hap¬ 
pily married to someone else!” 

“I will never, never marry anyone but Martin.” 

Lord Pendre went back to his writing-table. 

“You can go now,” he said. 

She got as far as the door, and then, flying back to him, 
flung herself on her knees beside him. 

“Dad—don’t send Briggy away. She is so happy here—she 
loves us all so much. If I’ve brought it on her punish me, 
not Briggy ...” The tears were pouring down her face. 

Lord Pendre was annoyed. He disliked scenes unless he 
conducted them himself, and then they were not without 
savor but were evidence of his own skill and strength. 

“Miss Brigstocke will leave us the day after to-morrow.” 
His voice had an iron sound. 

“What—the very day Eustie comes?” 

“That makes no difference. Get up at once and don’t be¬ 
have like a baby, or I shall put you out of the room.” 

Vicky did not move. She gazed at her father with a 
strange mixture of curiosity and repugnance. Was he hu¬ 
man ? Did her mother love him ? Why did he single her out 
as the special victim of his harshness and violence? Was 
there any particular reason that she should appear almost 
repulsive in his eyes? She couldn’t be altogether hateful, 
since Eustace and Martin and Miss Brigstocke, and even per¬ 
haps her mother, all cared for her in their several ways. The 
fault therefore couldn’t be wholly with herself. 

Something in her face aroused his sudden anger. He rose, 
dragged her to her feet with rough violence, and said:— 

“Go up to your room, and don’t let me see you again to¬ 
night. People should learn to accept the consequences of 
their own folly without whimpering.” 

Vicky went out of the room. She had the sense of having 
been trampled upon by some heavy weight that in its passing 
had crushed her. She was not crying now. Her heart felt 
very cold and hard as a stone. 


26 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


6 

At a little distance from the study door she saw her mother 
standing in the passage. So she had been waiting for her. 
The thought gave her a pang that was not wholly joy nor yet 
altogether pain. She ran up to her. 

“Mummie dear—do try to stop him from sending poor 
Briggy away! He says she’s to go the day after to-morrow 
—the very day Eustie is to arrive. And you know how she's 
been longing to see him. ...” 

Lady Pendre stroked back the dark hair from her daugh¬ 
ter’s burning forehead. She had spent this last half hour in 
an anguish of suspense. 

“I can’t do anything, Vicky.” 

“But you could say it wasn’t her fault that I went to meet 
Martin! She didn’t know anything. I didn’t tell her on 
purpose. It’s a shame to punish her ...” 

“I’m very sorry, Vicky. But why do you go against him? 
You always come off worst, don’t you? You knew there 
would be trouble if he discovered you’d been to meet Martin.” 

“I counted the cost,” said Vicky resolutely. “And I came 
to the conclusion it was worth anything to see Martin again, 
no matter what happened to me afterward. You see, he’s 
going abroad almost at once and it was our very last chance.” 
She made the avowal with perfect simplicity. “If only it 
hadn’t fallen upon poor Briggy—and just now!” 

“Yes, it’s a pity it’s happened just now with Eustace coming 
back. But you must try and be as cheerful as possible for his 
sake, Vicky. He’s coming home for the first time—as the 
only surviving son—the heir.” Her voice dropped a little and 
did not seem perfectly under control. “There’ll be difficulties, 
of course—he won’t find it easy just at first. We must all 
help him.” She looked down at her daughter, with grave 
pity in her eyes. “You mustn’t think I’m not sorry about 
Martin,” she went on quietly. “If you had asked my advice 
I think I should have urged you to postpone seeing him. Did 
it mean so much?” 

There was a little silence, then Vicky said: 


A MEETING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 27 

“I can’t quite tell. I suppose I thought it would be rather 
a lark. . . . But Martin was very serious—he wants to marry 
me. He won’t be satisfied with just caring—just loving.” 

‘‘And you would have been satisfied with just that ?” 

“I think so. Now at least. Getting married sounds so 
horribly grown-up, and I’m not even out yet. But Martin’s 
so much older; of course, he looks at things differently.” 

"I advise you to give up thinking of him for the present. 
You’re very young—you may change. And, as you say, he’s 
going abroad. Just for the present perhaps you’d better 
obey.” She looked at her almost appealingly. 

Vicky crept closer to her mother. 

“Dad frightens me so,” she whispered. “It’s terrible when 
he’s angry . . .” 

“Then don’t make him angry. Isn’t that the simplest way ?” 

“It’ll be a triumph for Pamela when poor Briggy goes!” 

Lady Pendre was secretly astonished. “But, my dear child, 
what business is it of Pamela’s?” 

“Oh, I heard her say once it was absurd to keep that useless 
old woman here and give her the two best rooms in the 
house,” answered Vicky. “I daresay she said that to Dad 
too. It’ud be just like her !” 

Mingled with Lady Pendre’s amazement, there was a sense 
of despair. She had so hoped that everything might be calm 
and harmonious for her son’s return. Yet never had the 
household presented a more disunited front. Her husband— 
Vicky—Pamela—and then this sudden banishment of the old 
family friend and governess, Miss Brigstocke. Of course, 
she had not always been quite wise or prudent, but she had 
truly loved Vicky, and the girl would miss her terribly. Lady 
Pendre was conscious of feeling a warm attachment for the 
woman who had thus befriended her daughter, although she 
had had very little to do with her herself. She had been 
there so long that she had become like some familiar piece of 
furniture whose removal would cause a gap. 

“Oh, can’t you plead for her?” cried Vicky, suddenly im¬ 
patient of her mother’s detached attitude toward Pendre and 
its inmates. It seemed to the girl that she watched the drama 


28 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


always from a remote place in the gallery, watched it atten¬ 
tively and critically, but never wished or tried to come-down 
to the stage and play her part. 

“I’m afraid not,” said Lady Pendre. “Your father must do 
as he thinks best.” 

Was it indolence, or indifference, or perhaps a mixture of 
both, that made her thus stand aside? Vicky could not tell, 
she only felt as if she herself were beating her hands im- 
potently against a thick wall of ice. Iron and ice—those were 
the things her parents respectively offered her. All at once 
she felt helpless and very weak and childish. She wished that 
Martin had lifted her up in his arms and taken her away with 
him. She had only come back to her father’s fury, her 
mother’s cold indifference. On these two altars she and Miss 
Brigstocke were to be sacrificed, unwilling, reluctant but 
helpless victims. 

“If you could have said one word—!” she exclaimed. 

But Lady Pendre only looked down at her and answered: 
“You know I never interfere.” It was so final, so conclusive, 
that the old chilly feeling came over Vicky, turning her heart 
to stone. 

“Why does he hate me so ?” she asked. 

“Don’t talk like that, Vicky dear. He doesn’t . . 

She could see that the girl was thoroughly overwrought, 
and in an excited, exalted condition to which no doubt Mar¬ 
tin’s visit had largely contributed. She seemed too much of a 
child and far too inexperienced to have to cope with such 
weighty problems as love and marriage. If the whole affair 
had been suffered to pass in silence, Lady Pendre believed 
that Vicky would have been the first to forget it. Even by 
her own showing, Martin’s attitude was far more serious 
than her own. It might be that it had awed her. She had 
gone forth lightly upon the adventure, and it had held things 
for which she had not been prepared. Martin’s love, ardent, 
purposeful, had perhaps awakened her. 

Something of compassion came into her face, and Vicky, 
who was supersensitive, immediately perceived it. It em¬ 
boldened her to say: 


A MEETING AND ITS CONSEQUENCES 29 

“And you—would you be against my marrying Martin?” 

“Not if you cared for him. But you’re a little too young 
to judge of that yet.” 

Vicky lifted her eyes to her mother’s face. 

“I think he taught me to-day,” she said simply. 

“Yes?” 

“He seemed so afraid of things coming between us—pre¬ 
venting our being married. Poor Martin—it must have been 
a nasty jar for him to meet Dad at the station!” 

Lady Pendre did not speak. Blame attached to Martin— 
there was no doubt of that. He was perfectly aware how 
matters stood at Pendre, he knew what a child Vicky w r as, 
and how completely she was under the authority of her father, 
and how harsh he could be if she disobeyed him. He had 
seen all these things a thousand times for himself, and he 
had had no right to expose the girl to Lord Pendre’s fierce 
anger. It was absurd to blame Vicky—she had been a mere 
tool in his hands—perhaps she scarcely realized how signifi¬ 
cant her action would seem if it ever reached her father’s 
ears. For, unlike other girls, she had never been accorded 
the slightest modicum of liberty—all her actions were super¬ 
vised and watched as if she were still a child. Nevertheless, 
she had always been like a wild thing imprisoned in a cage, 
struggling, moaning, beating against the bars. . . . 

Vicky put up her arms and kissed her mother, clasping her. 

“If it weren’t for Briggy, I shouldn’t really mind,” she 
said. “I know Martin’ll come back one of these days. And 
soon I shall have Eustie—he’s sure to take my part.” There 
was comfort in the thought. “I wish you were on my side, 
but I suppose you simply have to stick up for Dad whether 
you want to or not.” 

She kissed her mother again, and ran lightly up the stairs 
that led to the schoolroom. 


CHAPTER II 


The Return of Eustace Wingrave 

1 

\ MIST of green and pale gold hung gossamer-like over 
**■*“ the deep purple-brown of the Pendre woods. Last year’s 
fallen leaves still lay like a close carpet upon the moist brown 
earth, but they were pierced here and there by the strong 
tough stems and knots of young bracken, and by the slim and 
delicate spears of wild hyacinth and daffodil. In sheltered 
nooks it was possible to find a few early primroses, so pale 
as to be almost colorless, while the snowdrops bloomed in 
thick patches, defying the real snow that sometimes fell and 
smothered them. 

The blue line of the Irish sea showed between the slopes of 
two wooded hills that curved sharply down to the narrow 
valley that divided them like a thin ridge. A stream, swol¬ 
len by recent rains, hurtled down the valley like a shining 
tortuous serpent. The musical sound of its ripple was like a 
soprano song, sung to the deep, distant accompaniment of 
the sea. 

The house at Pendre stood upon the terraced slope of the 
eastern hill, and was protected on two sides by a thick belt 
of trees. Its mullioned windows looked out across an en¬ 
chanting space of wood and pasture-land to the blue misty line 
beyond. Great terraced gardens surrounded the splendid old 
stone pile. 

It was very still. The tempestuous days of winter were 
over, and a mild February was about to give place to March. 
There was a touch of spring in the air, sharp and vigorous, 
but none the less significant, a breathless, ice-like quality. 

30 


THE RETURN OF EUSTACE WINGRAVE 31 


It was just the kind of day, Lady Pendre felt, that she 
would have chosen for Eustace’ return. 

She stood at the library window, waiting for the sound of 
machinery and wheels that would herald his approach. A 
sense of expectancy throbbed in every nerve. And, para¬ 
doxically, she dreaded the very moment to which she was 
looking forward so passionately. 

She was a very reserved woman, in whom a profound, nat¬ 
ural reticence had deepened with years, and from the effect of 
the life she had been called upon while still very young to 
lead. She shrank from even a faintly adumbrated emotion. 
Vickey’s picture of her mother watching the happenings of 
Pendre from a remote and obscure spot in the gallery had 
been a fairly accurate one. 

Peace had been restored—an armed false peace across 
which the recent combatants watched each other with ever- 
increasing suspicion. Lord Pendre knew that his daughter’s 
submission was forced and feigned; she was at heart a rebel, 
loving Martin, thinking of Martin. . . . Vicky’s attitude was 
calm because of the heavy weight that had passed over her, 
crushing, as it had seemed fantastically to herself, the very 
bones in her body. Miss Brigstocke had left that morning, 
and Vicky as an act of grace had been permitted to motor 
over to St. David’s Bay with her and see her off at the sta¬ 
tion. By doing so she would inevitably miss the moment of 
her brother’s arrival, and the choice had been by no means 
easy. 

Eustace would therefore find his home outwardly har¬ 
monious and united. The swords were sheathed in his honor. 

But as Lady Pendre stood there, her thoughts were less 
with Eustace than of her elder son, some three years his 
senior, who lay dead in the trenches of Flanders. The boy 
of her heart, though characteristically she had hardly per¬ 
mitted him to be aware of it. But then she had never been 
at all intimate with any of her four children. No one, least 
of all her husband, had known how that death-wound had 
pierced her heart. 

She dreaded the coming of Eustace because she had al- 


32 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

ways understood him less than any of her children. But his 
attentive, observant, rather mystical eyes, might discern just 
what she was so determined to hide—the pain that his arrival 
must give her because of the memories that it would inevitably 
evoke. 

Did Eustace—did anyone—guess that she had loved Philip 
best? He had been so beautiful, with his bright dark laugh¬ 
ing face, full of youth and joy and life. Always, too, there 
had been a strange sympathy between them. And the night 
before he was killed, a few weeks before the Armistice, when 
the great push was impending, he had written to tell her that 
he loved her above everyone in the world. She had known 
it, of course, even when he had become engaged to Pamela 
Webb. There had never been any change in his love for her, 
only he had not spoken of it. Just the consciousness of immi¬ 
nent peril, the possibility—nay, the probability—of death had 
constrained him to write that letter. She had had to share 
it with her husband, but it had been an effort to her to show 
it to him. She just put it into his hand and went out of the 
room without saying a word. Later she found it in an en¬ 
velope, addressed to her and placed on her dressing-table near 
Philip’s photograph. Lord Pendre had never alluded to it, 
but once or twice afterward she had noticed that his eyes 
were fixed upon her in a queer questioning way, half wistful, 
half-suspicious. What had been the measure of that intimacy 
between mother and son? From what deep and unseen roots 
had it sprung? Even she could hardly have answered those 
questions. 

Lord Pendre had not learned a great deal of the difficult art 
of silence and self-control, yet sometimes he exhibited those 
qualities to his wife as if she had unconsciously imposed her 
example upon him. 

Increased wealth and a peerage had come to him during 
the war which had yet robbed him so severely. For to him 
Philip had been less a son than the figure upon whom all his 
ambitious hopes were centered, his elder son, his heir, destined 
to inherit Pendre, the new title, the old lands purchased a 
dozen years ago with his new-gotten wealth. To this hand- 


THE RETURN OF EUSTACE WINGRAVE 33 


some brilliant boy he had shown all the indulgence of which 
his hard and dominating nature was capable. Philip had early 
been a companion to him, eager, intelligent, a boy to whom no 
day was ever too long nor filled too full. In accepting the 
peerage Lord Pendre’s first thought had been for him. And 
then, only a year or two later, he had fallen. Lord Pendre, 
when the fatal telegram came, had the feeling that the world, 
his own comfortable, familiar, material world, had crumbled 
into ruins. Philip was dead, his joy and hope. There was 
Eustace, of course ... a queer ill-conditioned boy. Like his 
mother, but without her beauty. Thinking his own thoughts, 
immersed in his own secret projects. Eustace. . . . 

Lady Pendre was aware that her husband’s welcome of this 
survivor would be forced and constrained. 

Slowly the thoughts of Philip faded, and as she stood there, 
gazing across the woods to the far faint blueness of the Irish 
Sea, she found herself trying to visualize Eustace as she had 
seen him last, nearly three years ago. Very young-looking, 
smallish, with a thin, slight undeveloped figure, a white face 
with overhanging brows and strange burning eyes set so deep 
that they looked almost like lamps glimmering in the dim 
recesses of a cavern. Sometimes, indeed, they had seemed to 
her, accusing, reproachful eyes, as if she had robbed him of 
something that he had a right to possess. Of course, that was 
only the result of a morbid imagination. Eustace knew 
nothing. None of her children knew anything. The few 
acquaintances of her girlhood, that had been spent for the 
most part abroad with a reckless impecunious father, were all 
either dead or dispersed. There was no fear of ghosts ever 
arising to confront her, yet even now when she visualized 
Eustace, she seemed to be aware of those accusing con¬ 
demnatory eyes, as if subconsciously he could perceive the 
very thing she had assiduously hidden from him. 

Suddenly her vagrant uneasy thoughts flew back to a scene 
of his nursery days. She was standing in the big London 
nursery—they had had a house in Knightsbridge then, long 
since given up. She had gone in to see the children one 
evening just before dining out. Philip, in blue pajamas, was 


34 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


sitting at a low table near the fire, eating his supper of bread 
and milk. He was flushed and rosy from his bath, his dark 
curls were still shining with moisture. Near him was 
Barbara, fair, dainty, well-behaved, always even in those 
days gaily submissive to authority as if anything else would 
be “bad form.” Vicky, then a baby in arms, was already in 
her cot in the next room. Eustace, a small plain child of 
nearly four, thin and obstinate, was lying on the floor, pas¬ 
sionately refusing to move. 

“You must say your prayers, like a good boy,” the nurse’s 
patient but reproachful voice reiterated. 

“No—no ! I’ll say them to Mummie! Not to you ! Charlie 
Morgan always says his prayers to his Mummie!” 

Lady Pendre—she was Mrs. Hugo Wingrave then—stood 
motionless near the door, watching the little scene with a 
curious stricken expression upon her face. The nurse was, 
however, too much occupied with the recalcitrant child to 
notice it. And the wailing voice from the floor continued to 
lisp in baby accents: “Charlie Morgan always says his pray¬ 
ers to his Mummie!” 

Lady Pendre went forward and, stooping over her little 
son, lifted him with firm hand from the floor. She could 
remember even now how light and unresisting he was, yield¬ 
ing to her touch easily and readily . . . 

“I haven’t time to hear you say your prayers, Eustace,” she 
could hear herself saying coldly, across the years. “You must 
do as nurse tells you, or I’m afraid she’ll have to punish you.” 

Something in her voice must have cowed or chilled the child 
into sudden submission. He stood there, limp, tear-stained, 
with feet squarely set, looking up into her face. She had 
never forgotten the expression of his eyes, their accusing 
reproachful look. Just as if she, his mother, had unexpect¬ 
edly failed him at a crucial, critical moment when he had 
counted most confidently upon her loving support. . . . 

Did he remember the episode? He had a very retentive 
memory. Always it seemed to her that his coldness toward 
her had dated from that day. One had to be so careful with 
little children, their confidence—so difficult to gain—was so 


THE RETURN OF EUSTACE WINGRAVE 35 


easily shaken; something of it all might have remained buried 
in his subconsciousness, warning him perhaps not to approach 
her with any request for spiritual help. For many days after¬ 
ward he had avoided her, only coming if she called, and then 
unwillingly, with sullen countenance. 

She was thankful even then that it hadn’t been Philip. She 
would have wanted to say something in excuse or at least in 
explanation if it had been Philip to whom she had admin¬ 
istered that cruel little rebuff. She must have taken him in 
her arms and kissed him and told him that it wasn’t entirely 
her fault . . . she couldn’t help herself—it was part of her 
punishment . . . she hadn’t wanted to be cruel. . . . 

It was strange that this little scene, enacted at least eighteen 
years ago, should haunt her so persistently now and that 
memory should hand her this unwelcome picture of Eustace, 
sullen, obstinate, needing her so desperately. She tried to put 
it from her. She wanted to think of him only as she had 
last seen him in the khaki uniform that had hung a little 
loosely on his slender figure. What would he be like after 
those years spent in Salonica, Palestine, Iraq? What would 
his career be now ? Would he pass automatically to the place 
once intended for his brother in those great engineering works 
in the North of England, founded by his father? She could 
not tell. Not till she had seen him. He would be changed 
of course. The knowledge that he was the heir might sober 
his old visions of the future. 

2 

As she stood there the door was softly opened and a young 
girl came into the room. She was tall and slender, with pale 
golden hair, deep blue eyes, a clear-cut but slightly insensitive 
face. 

“The train must have been late, Pamela,” said Lady Pendre. 

Pamela Webb slipped her hand into the elder woman’s arm. 

“Oh, doesn’t it hurt you to think it might have been 
Philip ?” she whispered 


36 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Lady Pendre’s face stiffened a little. Dearly as she loved 
this girl whom Philip had intended to marry, she had never 
allowed her to penetrate to those recesses of her soul wherein 
she kept her adoration, her remorse and grief. She drew 
away, as if with an instinctive shrinking, from the contact, 
and said: 

“It would break my heart if such an idea as that occurred 
to Eustace!” 

Pamela Webb, so near, so dear to her because of her love 
for Philip and his for her, must yet never approach the inner 
shrine where his mother kept that beloved memory enthroned. 
Like all very reserved people, Lady Pendre had no intimate 
friends. She loved Pamela more for Philip’s sake than for 
her own. It had been, she sometimes felt, almost inevitable 
that they should have fallen in love with each other. In their 
young perfection, both endowed with health and strength and 
with an almost fantastic measure of physical beauty, they 
had seemed ideally suited. But since her son’s death Lady 
Pendre had reluctantly perceived disparities and propensities 
in the girl’s character that had sometimes made her pause and 
ask herself whether the marriage, had it taken place, would 
have turned out as happily as they had once imagined. 

Her attitude toward Vicky, for instance. That significant 
remark about Miss Brigstocke. A scarcely veiled antago¬ 
nism, a thinly disguised jealously, where Vicky was concerned, 
a disposition to thrust her on one side, and lower her a little 
in her father’s estimation. 

Pamela had never tried to win Vicky’s affection, contenting 
herself with an ardent friendship for Barbara. But Barbara 
was already married when the news of Philip’s death had 
reached Pendre, and her brother, dear as he was, had been 
in some sense superseded by her husband, Gerard Hammond, 
and the tiny son who bore his gallant young uncle’s name. 

The Wingrave children had always paired off, as happens 
in so many families. Philip and Barbara, Eustace and 
Vicky—deep-proven alliances, intimate, loyal, and if neces¬ 
sary powerfully offensive as well as defensive. And the 


THE RETURN OF EUSTACE WINGRAVE 37 


warm fast friendship between Eustace and Vicky still sur¬ 
vived. They were oddly alike in many ways. They had al¬ 
ways formed a turbulent element not easy to govern. 

Since Philip’s death Pamela had made her home almost 
entirely at Pendre, although nearly two years and a half had 
elapsed since that event. She was glad to escape from an un¬ 
congenial roof, from a youngish sharp-tongued stepmother 
immensely preoccupied with her own big brood of unattractive 
children. As the only child of her father’s first marriage she 
had inherited her mother’s little fortune. Enough for 
clothes—of which she always had a great many—and such 
things as journeys and sundry expenses. She liked the life 
at Pendre, dignified, ordered, luxurious. Lady Pendre was 
not unwilling to keep her there, but she foresaw difficulties, 
now that Vicky would soon be coming out. Pamela could no 
longer play first fiddle, as she had done while Vicky was in 
the schoolroom. Lord Pendre’s affection for her was even 
greater than that of his wife; she formed, too, a link with 
Philip; to befriend her was something they could still do for 
him. The engagement had met with his whole-hearted ap¬ 
proval, and even now he was unaware of those undercurrents 
that had begun to perplex and disturb his wife. If his atten¬ 
tion had been drawn to them, he would unhesitatingly have 
fastened the whole blame upon Vicky. 

“Vicky’s not back yet, I suppose?” said Lady Pendre. 

“Oh no—she insisted upon going with Miss Brigstocke to 
the station. Fa was awfully against it,” said Pamela. 

She always called Lord Pendre “Fa”—the word was short 
for father, and she had invented it when she first became en¬ 
gaged to Philip. It always produced an evilly irritating effect 
upon Vicky. 

“Vicky will miss her,” said Lady Pendre. 

“Oh well, it was rather a bore for you all having her. Fa 
must have felt it was a case of now or never when he sent 
her away.” 

She had hardly finished speaking, when the expected sound 
of an approaching motor car made itself heard. 


38 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


3 

Lady Pendre gave a little start. Pamela stood stone-still. 
Her face had an ashen, frozen look. Eustace! She had only 
seen him once and had not been exactly prepossessed in his 
favor. He had had nothing of Philip’s beauty and joyous 
happy aspect, and he had possessed something of Vicky’s in¬ 
scrutable, sullen expression. 

She was aware now, that Lady Pendre had left her side 
and had gone into the hall to greet her son. Now she could 
hear footsteps, a murmur of greetings, the stir of arrival; 
Lord Pendre’s voice giving directions to the chauffeur, strik¬ 
ing a familiar commonplace note that seemed to relieve the 
tension. 

Then they all came into the library, where Pamela was 
standing by the window, tall and slim in her unrelieved black. 
Eustace advanced toward her, his hand outstretched. 

“Hullo, Pamela! Glad to see you here,” he said, in his 
quiet rather melancholy voice. 

He had known her prior to her engagement and had some¬ 
times wondered a little at Philip’s swift overthrowal. He had 
discerned in her the elements of a ruthless, resolute ambition. 
But just now, looking at her pale sculptured face, the delicious 
gold of her hair cut straight across her forehead, the slightly 
weary expression of her beautiful eyes, he could feel nothing 
but compassion for her. 

Even now he was not very tall, had still that thin unde¬ 
veloped look that made him appear younger and more boyish 
than his twenty-two years seemed to warrant, especially con¬ 
sidering all the experience of life that had been crammed into 
them during this long period of wandering and warfare. The 
dark limp hair still hung slightly loose above the vast dispro¬ 
portionate forehead. The deep, deep eyes still gazed with un¬ 
conscious questioning from beneath the black penthouse 
brows, luminous, burning. It was a pale eager face, not at 
all unattractive; the eyes redeemed it from plainness. 

The younger son who had come back to fill Philip’s place. 
The heir to Pendre . . . Pamela turned away and fixed her 


THE RETURN OF EUSTACE WINGRAVE 39 


eyes upon the garden, over which the blue dusky veils of the 
spring evening were beginning to fall. 

“Come and have some tea, Eustie, you must be cold,” said 
Lady Pendre. 

She was standing near him, and as she spoke she laid her 
hand on his shoulder. He flushed a little at the contact; his 
eyes lit up with a swift gleam of pleasure. Of course, it was 
hopelessly rotten for them all. He oughtn't to have been 
there now, safe and sound, without a scratch or a day’s illness, 
while Philip was lying dead in Flanders. Rough luck on 
Pamela too. His arrival must turn the knife in her wound. 

Tea was served in the green drawing-room, whose paneled 
walls were hung with delicate old green damask of Italian 
origin. They often used it in winter in preference to any of 
the larger rooms, and now, with its cheerful fire, its soft car¬ 
pets and polished furniture, its subdued electric light hidden 
close to the ceiling, its plenitude of hot-house flowers, it 
offered to Eustace’ eyes a picture of almost superfluous com¬ 
fort. Some men were glad to get back to that kind of thing 
after the frugal hungry years. But he himself felt that the 
contrast was too striking, too emphatic. 

They were all having tea, when there was a sudden sound 
of flying footsteps coming down the wide corridor. Vicky 
flung open the door and, dashing into the room, almost hurled 
herself upon Eustace. It was just as if a young and boister¬ 
ous spring-wind had entered that calm apartment, bringing 
with it, too, a hint of wild growing perfumed things, whole¬ 
some and vigorous. 

“Oh, Eustie, Eustie, darling!” She was laughing and sob¬ 
bing alternately, apparently completely oblivious of the fact 
that there were other people present, two of whom were cer¬ 
tainly regarding her with a measure of contemptuous intoler¬ 
ance. Why couldn’t she be tranquil, as the occasion seemed 
to demand? Why this gush and excitement? “I did so try 
to get back in time, but I had to go to St. David’s Bay with 
poor old Briggy. And coming home—the road’s awfully bad, 
you know—we were held up for ages by a puncture.” 

“Couldn’t Briggy have chosen another day for her ex- 


40 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


pedition?” said Eustace, looking at her with a kind of whim¬ 
sical affection just as if she were a very little girl indeed. 

“Oh no—it wasn’t her doing—she’s had the sack, you know. 
And the poor old darling was so frightfully miserable that I 
simply couldn’t let her start off alone. But it was bad luck, 
her having to go to-day.” 

She was sitting now on the arm of Eustace’ chair, twining 
one thin bare arm round his neck. 

Every now and then she would lean her face a little closer 
to his, and kiss his brow. It was so wonderful to have him 
there, alive and well. Oh, she had been so frightened, so 
many times! . . . 

Eustace’ eyes softened. There was something genuine and 
authentic about Vicky’s welcome that thawed the frozen places 
of his heart. 

“Don’t throttle me, darling,” he whispered, looking into her 
face, that in truth somewhat resembled his own. But she 
was a decided improvement upon her brother. Her hair, 
thick and dark as his, was clipped like a page’s, and framed 
her tiny narrow pale face with its delicate slightly pointed 
features. The brow was small and square, with only a 
tendency to overhang; the chin was pointed, the eyes were 
dark brown and full of fire and intelligence. Her face was 
so small that when she was in the room all other women 
looked slightly out of scale. 

The mention of Miss Brigstocke’s departure had introduced 
a jarring note that exasperated Lord Pendre. Why on earth 
need Vicky drag it in at all, just at the moment when they 
wished to present a united and harmonious front to the re¬ 
turned warrior, thus giving him a wholly unnecessary glimpse 
into those events which had so recently been dividing the 
house against itself? But it was just like Vicky—she had 
no tact—she was always thrusting herself and her own mis¬ 
erable little affairs into the foreground; she wasn’t even 
trying to make Eustace’ homecoming a serene one. 

“But why’s Briggy gone? I’ve got something for her,” 
Eustace said, blissfully unconscious that his remark ap¬ 
proached dangerous ground. 


THE RETURN OF EUSTACE WINGRAVE 41 


“She’s been sent away,” replied Vicky, flushing, and dart¬ 
ing an angry glance toward her father, who was sitting be¬ 
tween his wife and Pamela: “She wasn’t enough of a spy,” 
she whispered. 

“Vicky—I won’t have you whispering. If you’ve got any¬ 
thing to tell Eustace, you can say it out loud,” said Lord 
Pendre, in a tone that was at once bland and threatening. 
“There is no mystery about Miss Brigstocke’s leaving us. 
You were disobedient and getting into mischief, and she 
hadn’t troubled to discover what you were up to. Now 
Eustace knows all about it.” 

During the uncomfortable pause that followed, Pamela 
rose and stole softly out of the room. The little scene af¬ 
fected her to the point of tears. There was, too, a faint 
family likeness between Eustace and Philip that had never 
struck her so forcibly as now. And it had hurt her to see this 
younger son returning home as the heir in Philip’s place. The 
survivor . . . Yes, he would have it all, the beautiful prop¬ 
erty—she was learning to love every stick and stone at 
Pendre—the wealth, the lovely ordered leisurely life, free 
from all financial anxieties. And one day—perhaps even 
soon—she would have the anguish, too, of seeing another 
woman enjoying what should have been hers. 

“I oughtn’t to have stayed—I ought to have gone home—” 
she thought, as she went hurriedly upstairs, her eyes blinded 
with scalding tears. It was Vicky’s loving, impulsive, exag¬ 
gerated welcome of her brother that had demolished her own 
scanty store of self-control. 

Vicky had loved Philip, of course—they had all in their re¬ 
spective fashions adored him—but Eustace was her own 
special brother, whose return was now giving her the most 
perfect joy she had ever known. It was an even greater joy 
than she had felt when she had gone out to meet Martin. 
Conscience had never been perfectly quiet about that illicit 
adventure, whereas she could enjoy this happiness with every¬ 
one looking on. 

Pamela had never cared much for Vicky, regarding her in 
the old days as a troublesome, undisciplined child who richly 


42 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


deserved everything she got from Fa. But of late she had 
begun to dislike her actively and definitely. She was afraid, 
too, of her keen vision, her sharp ready tongue. And soon 
she felt that this child would dispossess her, demand her own 
rightful place in the house, and perhaps even make it impos¬ 
sible for her to continue to live at Pendre. And it would 
simply break her heart to leave that lovely spot between the 
Welsh mountains and the Irish Sea . . . 

She had wished to make a good impression upon Eustace, 
too, but Vicky had thrust herself forward from the moment 
she came in, absorbing all his attention as if no one else had 
any right to speak to him at all. So selfish and possessive— 
she was glad that Fa had given her that well-deserved snub. 
Pamela had learnt all about that episode with Martin, and it 
had made her a little jealous of Vicky. Vicky would claim 
all the attention now as the only daughter of the house. She 
was lovely in her way, and she would have money if she 
married to please her father. Vicky had . . . everything. 
Pamela had never felt herself so bereft as she did this 
afternoon. 

Intuitively, too, she was aware that Lord Pendre hoped 
perhaps that Eustace might . . . He would have liked to 
keep Pamela in the family. Of Lady Pendre’s attitude she 
was much less certain, but she felt pretty sure that no dif¬ 
ficulties would be forthcoming from that quarter. The only 
possible opposition would emanate from Vicky, and it would 
certainly possess a fierce, elemental, fiery quality whose ulti¬ 
mate effect one could hardly foretell. 

When she thought of Vicky, sitting there on the arm of 
Eustace’ chair, petting and fondling him in that ridiculous 
fashion, she could picture how strenuously the girl would 
oppose any suggestion of the kind. 

4 

“Poor old Pamela,” said Eustace, watching her attentively 
until she had gone out of the room, closing the door be¬ 
hind her. 


THE RETURN OF EUSTACE W IN GRAVE 43 


“She has been so brave through it all—a perfect heroine,” 
said his father, stiffly. “She’s a very fine woman.” 

Vicky was silent. Her hand clasped her brother’s a trifle 
more firmly, as if with an unconscious desire to obtain his 
support. 

“Does she live here altogether now?” he asked. 

“She stays here whenever she likes, and for as long as she 
likes,” corrected Lord Pendre. He spoke in a lofty ruffled 
tone. 

“It comes to exactly the same thing,” said Vicky, with 
unusual temerity. 

It amounted, as she knew, to an act of lese-majeste to 
criticize Pamela, and ordinarily she was far too much afraid 
of her father to attempt it, but Eustace’ presence gave her 
courage. 

There was a brief silence. Lady Pendre sipped her tea. 
If only Vicky would learn to be silent. . . . Eustace’ “Hush 
darling” did not reach across the room to where his parents 
were sitting. He began to realize that Vicky and Pamela 
didn’t pull well together, and in his desire for peace he depre¬ 
cated the fact. 

“It does not. You are purposely giving Eustace a false 
impression,” said Lord Pendre. There was a slightly aug¬ 
mented note of exasperation in his voice. 

He looked very big and black and formidable as he sat 
there, Eustace thought. That quality of overwhelming 
strength and pitiless power struck him afresh every time he 
saw him. But now after three years’ absence it seemed to 
have increased rather than diminished. Success had only 
given him an added consciousness of his own ascendency. He 
had the hardness of a rough-hewn statue rather than that of 
a man. How useless to hurl one’s puny force against that 
rock, as Vicky was so fond of doing! What could she expect 
to receive but wounds and bruises and hurts of all kinds ? . . . 

Pamela’s presence in the house had long been an accepted 
fact, and it was Lord Pendre’s pleasure that she should re¬ 
main there. It would take more than one of Vicky’s futile, 
pigmy earthquakes to remove her! Since Philip s death, she 


44 CHILDREN OF. THE SHADOW 

had only been away three times from Pendre, and her longest 
absence had barely lasted a fortnight. She had her own 
room, with a charming little sitting-room adjoining. Not 
such a handsome apartment as Miss Brigstocke’s, but she had 
already suggested that perhaps if they didn’t really mind she 
might move into those now unoccupied quarters. No one ex¬ 
cept Vicky had ever ventured to criticize the arrangement or 
to resent the apparent permanence of Pamela’s stay. And 
since the days of mourning had come to an end, Lady Pendre 
had taken Pamela about with her both in Wales and in Lon¬ 
don, almost as if she had indeed been her own daughter,. 
There had been every excuse for this, since Vicky even now 
was barely eighteen and had not yet been presented. 

Vicky had always been wild and headstrong and insubor¬ 
dinate, unlike the others. She made a discordant element in 
the house, and her inability to hit it off with her father was 
becoming daily more pronounced as her childish fear of him 
diminished. But there were still scenes when she would face 
him like a rebellious boy. She was intensely lovable and 
utterly unmanageable. Eustace was the only one who had 
ever been able to control her. His influence over her in the 
past had been almost complete. Pamela wondered if it would 
still be so, whether he would encourage this silly affair with 
Martin. In her heart she hoped that he would; her one 
dream was of a Pendre where there would be no Vicky, no 
younger, prettier, wealthier and more intelligent rival. 

Pamela remembered that Eustace and Vicky had always 
clung together, as if subconsciously realizing that they were 
somewhat less dear to their parents than Philip and Barbara. 

But all that might be changed now, since Eustace had in¬ 
herited his brother’s position. He was the only surviving 
son, the heir. Already there could be discerned a change, 
very subtle but significant, in Lord Pendre’s manner toward 
his son. Just as if he wished to remind him . . . 

Vicky was still sitting on the arm of Eustace’ chair, and 
now that he had finished his tea—she had been far too much 
excited to touch her own—she was clasping and caressing his 
face, stroking his hair, kissing him on cheek and brow with 


THE RETURN OF EUSTACE WINGRAVE 45 

delicate little pecks as if to assure herself that he was really 
there. 

Suddenly Lord Pendre said:— 

“Don’t go on in that absurd way, Vicky. Anyone would 
think you were six years old. Sit there—” he pointed to a 
chair—“and leave Eustace alone!” 

She slid down from her perch. 

“Sorry, Dad. But I just wanted Eustie to know that some¬ 
one was glad to see him,” she said. Her cheeks were flushed 
and her eyes shining; there was an edge of deliberate malice 
in her voice. 

“Eustace knows we are all delighted to see him. De¬ 
lighted—and relieved,” said Lord Pendre. 

“Pamela had rather a chilly way of showing her rapture,” 
said Vicky. 

“Dry up,” warned Eustace. “You can’t expect her not to 
feel it.” 

“She shouldn’t have stayed here, then, if she thought it 
would be too much for her feelings,” said Vicky, daringly; 
“and she oughtn’t to have stayed,” she added. 

“If you can’t be a trifle less venomous I will send you out 
of the room,” said Lord Pendre. He bestowed tipon her a 
slightly menacing glance that had the effect of immediately 
silencing her. But she had gone as far as she dared; the 
satisfaction of saying what she had been burning to say, 
was hers. 

Lady Pendre was silent all through the little scene. She 
always hated the bickering that went on continually between 
Vicky and her father, and it seemed an outrage that such an 
occasion as the present should offer an excuse for it. Once 
or twice she glanced appealingly at her daughter, as if en¬ 
treating her to desist. And then she allowed her gaze to 
rest for one long moment upon Eustace’ face. . . . 

Of course he looked tired and worn; he had the strained 
and tense aspect of a man who for many months had endured 
the horrors of war, living and working in the midst of death 
and suffering and peril. His face was thin, grave, and a trifle 
melancholy. Even without Vicky’s reckless words he must 


46 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


have discerned how immeasurably their joy was tempered by 
the sorrowful memories his return could not fail to evoke. 

Lady Pendre knew he was far too sweet-tempered to mind 
that. He had never grudged that limitless love they had all 
given to Philip. He had loved and admired his brother gen¬ 
erously, unstintingly, always feeling perfectly contented that 
he should occupy the chief seat. For Eustace, too, had been 
a little under the spell of the elder boy’s magic personality 
that had so endeared him to all, young and old, great and 
small. It was something that had made Philip’s friends feel 
there was no one quite like him, and that at his death a burn¬ 
ing light had been extinguished. 

Only Vicky was jealous for Eustace and didn’t trouble to 
hide it. She had given them all a glimpse just now of what 
was passing in her stormy, restless little mind. Oh, couldn’t 
they all see that though “Phip” had been wonderful, Eustace 
was wonderful, too? Yes, and beautiful, with his strange 
flaming eyes that looked like the windows of an imprisoned 
fiery soul. She stretched out her hand and touched his sur¬ 
reptitiously, afraid lest her father might perceive the gesture. 
The warm grasp of Eustace’ hard thin fingers closing over 
her own reassured her. 


CHAPTER III 


The Only Surviving Son 

1 

T7USTACE escaped to his own room at last. Already a 
footman was there, unpacking his few possessions and 
arranging them in the capacious chests and wardrobes. 

His room was a big one on the top floor; its three windows 
swept the horizon, embracing a wide and beautiful view of 
woodland, sky and sea, with a silver glimpse of the river 
twisting along the deep bed of the valley. It was almost too 
dark for him to see anything of it now, but from force of 
habit he went to the window, flung it open, and sat there 
staring out into the overflowing cup of dim blue dusk. There 
was no wind, but the air tasted brackish—how he loved that 
delicious salt tang!—the sky was clear and growing dark, 
pierced already by a few faint stars. Nearby the great 
cedars on the lawn below lifted their flat stiff black branches. 
He heard the hooting of an owl, an eerie, desolate sound cut¬ 
ting sharply across the silence. 

“You can leave all that now, William/’ he said, turning sud¬ 
denly to the man. “Finish later/’ 

William withdrew respectfully. Eustace felt an urgent 
desire for solitude, and the little fidgeting sounds incidental 
to unpacking had disturbed him. He was thinking: “How 
on earth am I going to bear family life again?” It seemed 
to him that he simply could not endure it, the perpetual need 
for adjustment, the want of true liberty, his father’s eternal 
fault-finding. He had been away three years, and he had 
acquired a taste for freedom and solitude. 

Now that he was alone a certain restlessness came over him. 

47 


48 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


He longed to be out of doors—out there in the cold, black, 
yet calm spring night. The air flowed against his face, 
bracing rather than soothing him. It was more fresh than 
cold. His long campaigning had given him a distaste for 
enclosed rooms. That big fire blazing on the hearth ren¬ 
dered the room unpleasantly warm. Then he realized that 
his eyes were smarting, as if the acrid smoke from the fire 
had affected them. There was an almost pathetic weariness 
in the boy’s attitude as he leaned his chin on his hand and 
gazed out upon a scene that was every moment becoming 
more invisible to him, swallowed up as it were in the darken¬ 
ing shadows. 

Pendre ... It seemed to be holding out hands to him to¬ 
night, to clasp him more closely than it had ever done before. 
It seemed almost to be appealing to him not to turn away 
from all that it meant to him now. Asking for his care, re¬ 
minding him of responsibility—the responsibility of man to 
the brown earth that nourishes him. Had he not fought for 
England, for the safety of her green fields, the inviolacy of 
her blue ring of sea? And these fields, these woods, stretch¬ 
ing down to the very shore, would one day be his. Could he 
set aside their claim carelessly, indifferently? Could he 
neglect the task Philip had not lived to fulfil? Was this a 
suretyship he could refuse to assume? . . . 

The little incidents of his home-coming had reacted un¬ 
pleasantly upon him, jarring his nerves. His father’s tem¬ 
per . . . Pamela’s ill-concealed emotion . . . Vicky’s biting 
little speeches. Pamela—he had never imagined somehow 
that she would be there. He wondered a little how she had 
contrived to arouse Vicky’s definite antagonism. What had 
she done? Yet Vicky’s display of ill-feeling had annoyed 
him too. It was all so petty . . . she had succeeded in 
ruffling everyone. Obviously she was upset at Miss Brig- 
stocke’s departure. And what on earth had poor old Briggy 
done to get the sack like this? . . . 

The truth was they had all been thinking of Phip, and 
Eustace began to feel his brother’s presence as never before. 
He would indeed have been scarcely surprised to see him walk 


THE ONLY SURVIVING SON 49 

into the room at that moment, pipe in mouth, and hear him 
utter his usual greeting after a prolonged separation. 

“Hello, Useless!” 

And Eustace would have looked up, his eyes full of satis¬ 
faction and admiration, and answer: 

“Hello, Phip 1” 

They had always been glad to see each other. Eustace gave 
a little shiver. If they could only have known it, he had 
mourned his brother’s absence more deeply and bitterly that 
afternoon than any of them. He had loved him very much. 
And in a sense it was he who would suffer most by his death. 
The change in his own position and circumstances appalled 
him. 

“I could never take his place,” he declared now. “I should 
simply hate it. Family life in a conventional English country 
house! I could never stick it here. Yet, I suppose it would 
be cowardly to refuse.” 

The soft comfort, the warmth, the luxurious ease of the 
room, with all its handsome furnishings and appurtenances, 
nauseated him. . . . 

The wide sky and the invisible but audible sea were surely 
calling to him. He felt a desperate longing to go out into 
the wet woods—the dear beautiful Pendre woods—and sleep 
on a bed of crisp leaves, with all the tiny, wild, furred and 
feathered creatures scampering about him. 

“I wonder what they’ll want me to do? But it’s too late 
to try to make an elder son of me!” 

He was twenty-two, and to him as to all young men of his 
generation independence and harsh experience had come very 
early. At nineteen he had been in the trenches. And though 
it was now more than two years since the Armistice, he had 
remained with his regiment in the East, deferring for many 
reasons the date of his demobilization. He would have de¬ 
ferred it still longer had it been possible, but his father had 
written rather peremptorily to him, inviting him to return 
home. 

The experiences of the war had given him a taste for 
austerity, a dislike of superfluities, and a desire for simplicity 


50 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


in all things. He had been in places where money was of no 
avail, and thus had acquired a certain contempt for it. Al¬ 
ways when a boy he had planned to live a free colonial life, 
possibly with Vicky, but now how could he hope to realize 
that ambition? . . . 

Philip’s death a few weeks before the Armistice . . . They 
had all believed and hoped that he bore a charmed life. It 
was the first time that Eustace had returned to Pendre since 
that tragic event, and the manner of his welcome had shown 
him how little they had all recovered from the blow. Pamela’s 
rather tragic presence must surely be a continual 
reminder. . . . 

Secretly he sympathized with Vicky and wished that Pamela 
had not been present at the time of his own arrival. But his 
mother had at least been calm. She had clung to him a little, 
as if in a sense he had become doubly dear to her now. There 
was joy as well as sadness in her eyes. And she had loved 
Philip so much! 

When Eustace contemplated his mother, he was always 
intrigued by the atmosphere of mystery that seemed to sur¬ 
round her. She was such an enigma. Sometimes when he 
was away from her, he had been simply obsessed by the desire 
to penetrate into the recesses of that mind of hers, so that he 
might understand her. He had found himself continually' 
thinking of her at odd moments, realizing the better, for her 
absence, the thin sheet of ice which seemed to divide her 
even from those nearest and dearest to her. Even Philip, to 
Eustace’ knowledge, had chafed against it. Yet Philip had 
been far too simple of outlook to be intrigued by any subtle¬ 
ties of psychology, although he, too, had felt the presence of 
some baffling mystery hidden securely behind that barrier 
of conscious reticence. Mystery . . . and his mother! . . . 
Eustace made an effort to subdue these fantastic thoughts. 
For on the face of it what mystery could there possibly be? 
She had met and married his father when she was eighteen 
years old—there was a disparity of nearly twenty years be¬ 
tween their respective ages, although now it looked even 
more. Until her marriage, Lady Pendre had lived with her 


THE ONLY SURVIVING SON 


51 


father, Major Kelsey, in various continental cities, chiefly 
in France and Italy, where living was cheap and existence 
easy. A vagrant rather penurious life, Eustace had pictured 
it. And then to marry one of the most conventional of men, 
to settle down to an ordered wealthy English life, side by side 
with a man of powerful dominating personality. They had 
had that house in Knightsbridge at first, where all the chil¬ 
dren had been born, and a huge mansion on the Surrey hills, 
which had only been given up when Pendre was bought. 

As a young girl Lady Pendre must have been very lovely. 
Eustace had seen a photograph of her taken at the time of her 
marriage in the mid-’nineties. He had often pored over it, 
trying as it were to elicit some clue to the puzzling problem 
from that exquisite young pictured face. But it offered none. 
The delicate lips were closely folded, and had their normal 
withdrawn reticent expression. The eyes, large and dark, 
gazed seriously and pensively, though to the boy’s imagina¬ 
tion they seemed to hold a secret defiance. But the beauty 
was unquestionable, even haunting, and the years had done 
little to dim its marvelous quality. Neither Vicky nor Barbara 
would ever be able, in common parlance, to “hold a candle” 
to their mother. 

But this afternoon, on seeing her again after so long an 
absence, he had been struck afresh by something that was 
both mysterious and enigmatic in her face. His long thoughts 
of her had not erred. And, boy-like, he desired to penetrate 
the mystery—surely a very commonplace and innocent one!— 
and lay the ghost that was obscurely troubling her. . . . 

2 

Lady Pendre came into her son’s room. She had knocked 
but Eustace, deep in thought, had not heard her. He rose 
quickly now, as she approached, and closed the window. She 
was always sensitive to cold. 

Outside the moon had risen, and illuminated with fragile 
silver the scarf of mist that marked the course of the stream, 
drifting seaward down the deep cleft of the valley. 


52 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

He turned to his mother and pulled a chair nearer the fire 
for her. 

“Well, Mummie?” he said smiling. 

It was almost a relief to him to see her so calm, so abso¬ 
lutely normal. But there was the least touch of wistfulness 
in the look she now gave him, just as if she, too, appre¬ 
hended and deplored the unexplained, invisible barrier that 
divided her from her children. 

The long slim line of her figure was accentuated by the 
plain straight modern dress she wore, cut short above the 
ankles and displaying her slender shapely feet. Her hair, 
turned back from the brow, was coiled closely at the nape of 
her neck. She wore no jewels of any kind; the lack of them 
gave to her extreme simplicity of attire a certain austerity. 

A pang of pity pierced him. Would it hurt her to know 
that he was already forming plans for escape? Would he 
really mean a little more to her, now that she had no other 
son? 

But it wasn’t only his mother who seemed to be holding out 
hands to capture him. . . . There were other things. Pendre 
itself—the woods, the green fields dipping down to the sea, 
the very house. They were all demanding something of him. 
Something that he was unwilling to give. Besides, what 
could Pendre want of him? His father had only been in 
possession of that ancient beautiful property for about twelve 
years. Surely, as a family they had struck no roots in the 
soil. It wasn’t as if he wanted to abandon an ancient heri¬ 
tage that had belonged to his ancestors. There were thou¬ 
sands of men in England as capable of doing their duty by 
Pendre as he was. 

And yet he felt that the place was asking something of 
him, Eustace Wingrave, a gift that perhaps only his hands 
could bestow. . . . What was it that it wanted? What on 
earth had he to give? He stirred restlessly in his seat. 

“Mummie dear, you know I’ve been terribly sorry for you 
all. And I hate the thought of taking Phip’s place. I can 
never be to you what he was. So splendid . . .” 

She bent her head a little so that her face was almost en- 


THE ONLY SURVIVING SON 


53 


tirely in shadow. But the little gesture seemed to convey to 
him an assurance that his spontaneous tribute had touched 
and pleased her. 

Presently she looked up and said in quite a quiet matter-of- 
fact voice: 

“You must do your best to take his place, darling. Try to 
be everything that he would have been. You know he always 
thought the world of you, Eustie. And things are always 
easier when one’s duty is quite clear.” 

He gave a sharp sudden movement that was almost like a 
shiver of dismay. Had she divined the trend of his 
thoughts—his dreams of the future? Would she, too, join 
with the old house in weaving nets to prevent his escape? . . . 

“I can’t ever be what Phip was,” he said doggedly, “it 
isn’t in me. And I want quite a different life from this one. 
The war’s taught me that. I want to be free,” he added, not 
daring to look at her. “To learn things.” 

“Free!” she repeated, as if the word held for her a strange 
sound. 

“It’s as if something were calling to me,” he burst out 
vehemently. “I don’t say there aren’t other forces trying to 
keep me here, because there are.” 

In his pale narrow passionate face the dark eyes glowed 
strangely. 

She gazed at him questioningly, patiently. “Yes, Eustie? 
What kind of things do you want to learn?” 

His answer astonished her. “About God, chiefly, he said 
in a low choked voice, as if he were both reluctant and 
ashamed to reveal anything so intimate about his secret 
thoughts. 

Momentarily he was startled, almost terrified, at the effect 
his words produced upon her. What ancient hurt had that 
arrow struck? She turned her head abruptly away, and he 
saw that the little pale hands lying in her lap were clasped, 
nay strained together, so that the bones showed sharply 
through the white skin. But she was very still. No sound 
escaped her. And yet he felt that his words had struck her 


54 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

like a blow, bewildering her, robbing her of speech, almost 
of sense. ... 

Across the silence that followed, Lady Pendre could hear a 
child’s shrill, passionate voice crying: “Charlie Morgan 
always says his prayers to his mummie!” She wondered 
inconsequently if Eustace remembered and ever contemplated 
that far-off scene. 

“You see, I’ve never been taught anything here,” he went 
on, not reproachfully, but as if to justify himself for setting 
forth upon such a quest. 

“But you learned things, didn’t you?” she said quietly. “I 
mean, from nurses and governesses, and at school. You 
weren’t left altogether in ignorance.” 

“They didn’t teach us much,” he answered, in his queer 
withdrawn voice. “Neither Phip nor I were ever confirmed. 
Dad didn’t insist, and you never said a word. So we talked 
it over—Phip and I—and came to the conclusion we’d better 
wait. We saw, of course, that you never went to church or 
to the communion service yourself, and Dad only about twice 
a year. But it’s since Phip’s death that I’ve thought and 
thought about these things!” He broke off. “Sorry, Mum¬ 
mie, but I’ve got to find out the truth for myself—somehow— 
somewhere ...” 

He expected reproaches, but then when had she ever re¬ 
buked or reproached him? Her long slow gaze, full of won¬ 
der for all its wistfulness, was fixed steadily upon him. It 
seemed to him to hold both surprise and encouragement. 
And to his own astonishment he felt nearer to her than he 
had ever done before. She wasn’t alienated by his words, 
that had held bitterness, too, as well as suggested reproach, 
and perhaps had revealed his own revolt against her long 
silence on the subject of religion. 

“You’re old enough,” she said; “you’re twenty-two. Only 
be careful. Ask God to help you, my dear.” 

He stared at her, hardly able to believe that she had really 
spoken thus, with an earnestness, a fervor, he had never be¬ 
fore associated with her. 

“You did so much for us all,” he found courage to say, 


55 


THE ONLY SURVIVING SON 

“that I’ve often wondered why you left us so utterly in the 
dark—without guidance—in this one thing. It could only 
be, I used to think, because you were indifferent to religion 
yourself, and so didn’t care if we believed in anything or 
not!” 

Their eyes met—the dark eyes so strangely alike. But he 
saw by the reticent look in her face that neither now nor at 
any other time would she offer him excuse or explanation for 
that apparently deliberate lacuna in their education. They 
must accept it and translate it as they chose, and seek their 
own spiritual paths without reference to her. 

She said in rather a muffled tone: “Did Phip mind very 
much ?” 

“Not so very much. Not nearly as much as I did. Of 
course, I hardly saw him after he went to the front. I d 
gone by the time he came back on leave the second time. 
And he always took things more for granted than I did. He 
thought it rather queer, of course. We met chaps at school 
who were badgered at home about religion and going to 
church till they were pretty well sick of it. Some of them 
were even thrashed if they tried to shirk. And they used to 
think it odd that we’d never been pestered about it. And then 
in the trenches, with death so near day after day, one couldn’t 
help thinking about an after-life—whether there was one and 
what it was like, and whether one had to be worthy of it in 
order to get there. I don’t mean just because we’d got the 
wind up—it was a real desire to know, to learn if there was 
any compensation for the hell we were going through.” 

“Why didn’t you ask your father, Eustie? I mean, when 
you were a boy at school?” 

“Dad!” he said with a touch of scorn. “Oh, yes, I know 
he goes to church on Sundays for the sake of example—he’d 
think it ungentlemanly to be anything but a churchman and 
a conservative. But that isn’t the kind of religion I want! 

She winced slightly. “What do you want, Eustie, darling? 
I mean—have you any idea?” 

A curious almost mystical expression came over his face, 


56 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

giving it a beauty of expression she had never before seen 
upon it. 

“I want to know more about Our Lord Jesus Christ,” he 
said. “I love Him, you know. I want to find the way to get 
closer to Him. I used to think He seemed near me so that I 
never felt frightened nor too much alone. I’ve so hoped that 
Phip felt that too.” 

He fumbled at his collar, and presently drew forth a little 
crucifix attached to a thin silver chain. 

“This was given to me by a chap who was dying—a 
Catholic,” he continued. “He told me it was indulgenced for 
the hour of death. He made me promise not to take it till 
he was dead.” 

Lady Pendre sat there so still that it almost seemed as if 
she were transfixed to the spot. She stared at the crucifix, 
and for the moment the emotionless calm of her face was 
broken up, disturbed, as if some mighty storm had passed 
over it. She looked . . . frightened. Then she rose sud¬ 
denly and went toward Eustace, standing over him. He felt 
her nearness, and did not dare to move. 

She bent down, caught the chain in her hand and raising 
the crucifix to her lips kissed the Nailed Feet almost with 
passion. And before he could turn or speak she had left 
him, hurrying out of the room, closing the door sharply be¬ 
hind her, as if in entreaty that he would not try to follow 
her. . . . 

3 

Eustace replaced the crucifix, first touching it with his lips 
as his mother had done. 

He was frankly puzzled. “I must have upset her by saying 
that about Phip,” he reflected. “What a brute I am! Per¬ 
haps she's sorry now for her—indifference. But she didn’t 
seem to mind anything I said as long as I only talked about 
myself.” 

Yet—was she indifferent? Had not that little impulsive 


THE ONLY SURVIVING SON 


57 


action of hers been a significant, a self-revealing one? He 
felt that he could never again regard her as indifferent or 
unbelieving. She did care, and her silence respecting the 
things of religion was perhaps deep-rooted in that mystery 
which permeated her whole personality, so that one always 
seemed to be looking at her in some dusky mirror that pre¬ 
sented one with a blurred if beautiful image of which the 
lines were never quite clear. She did care, and for the first 
time he felt that he had inadvertently laid his hand upon 
the key to that hidden mystery which had so baffled three 
out of her four children. 

That such a good woman as his mother should live so 
utterly apart from religion had puzzled him ever since he had 
first been able to realize how destitute her life apparently was 
of all tangible spiritual support and ideals. His father’s atti¬ 
tude had seemed a far more normal one. He had taken his 
children to church on Sundays, sitting in the “squire’s” big 
pew with its red cushions and high hassocks. His two 
daughters sat one on each side of him, and the boys occupied 
respectively the far ends of the line; thus they were rigorously 
divided from each other, and Eustace was always placed next 
to Barbara, who could be depended upon to check any signs 
of inattention and restiveness on his part. But he could 
never remember seeing his mother in church. It was rather 
a long walk—she hated walking—perhaps that had been her 
excuse. But even in London, where there were churches 
quite close ? . . . There was surely no excuse then. 

It comforted him now to remember, after the abrupt ending 
to their interview, that she had shown something like appro¬ 
bation and encouragement when he had spoken of his con¬ 
templated quest. She realized perhaps how impossible it 
would be to accomplish it here in this great house, with its 
servants, its furniture, its ^suffocating luxury. He must go 
out into the world, like the pilgrims of old, poor, humble, 
seeking. 

He went back to the window and looked out upon the black 
sleeping woods, mere shadows now, at one with the night. 


58 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


In the far distance the moon touched the sea so that between 
the trees it showed a line of impalpable silver. Something 
was calling to him, urgently, persuasively. The world that 
lay beyond Pendre! God’s world, for which His Only Son 
had died, shamefully tortured upon the Cross. And to what 
end? Somewhere in that world there must be someone to 
show him the truth, to teach him why, to answer the questions 
that perplexed and baffled him. 

His mother, listening to him, had urged him to pray. . . . 
When he remembered that, his heart grew soft toward her. 
He felt that he loved her more tenderly than ever before. 
He felt, too, her love for him. 

Of course from his father he had only to expect reproaches 
and recriminations. Lord Pendre was a busy energetic man 
who despised idleness in others. And every form of employ¬ 
ment that did not receive an adequate recompense in the 
shape of hard cash was inevitably stigmatized by him as idle¬ 
ness. He had always perceived in Eustace, to his own bitter 
disappointment, a lack of energy, of initiative, that he con¬ 
sidered augured less than well for his son’s future. Perhaps 
he might force him into accepting the post in the firm which 
had always been destined for Philip. Lord Pendre would 
inevitably regard Eustace’ spiritual quest, if indeed he ever 
came to hear of it, as a mere specious pretext for idling. 
There had never been much sympathy between father and 
son. There was too great a gulf of time and thought be¬ 
tween them. The War had shown too sharply the line that 
divided the elder from the younger generation. For the 
brunt of the bitter reaping had, after all, fallen upon the 
young. 

But there was no such division between Eustace and his 
mother. This evening she had seemed so young—scarcely 
older than himself—eager in her silent sympathy. They had 
seemed more closely knit together than ever before. He felt 
happier, now that he had told her of what was in his mind. 
And almost, at that last moment before her abrupt leaving 
of him, he had had the feeling that she was trembling upon 


THE ONLY SURVIVING SON 


59 


the brink of some crucial revelation that would forever eluci¬ 
date all those baffling ambiguities in her character and show 
her to him in a new and dazzling perfection, no longer as in a 
glass darkly, but as it were face to face in pristine, undimmed 
splendor. . . . 


CHAPTER IV 


Undercurrents 

1 

^T^HE first days at home passed peacefully. The truce 
between Lord Pendre and his daughter continued. 

Often Eustace found himself alone with Pamela Webb, 
although it was certainly not by any wish of his own, nor 
did it occur to him immediately that it was the result of her 
deliberate contriving. 

Her air of gentle melancholy rather attracted him. In her 
fair, gold and white way she was certainly very pretty, and 
far from ordinary-looking. Yet it was difficult for Eustace 
to understand why she had aroused the not too easy adora¬ 
tion of his brother. Philip had always been fastidious, and 
Pamela was hardly sufficiently alive, intellectually speaking, 
to have satisfied him as a permanent companion. 

It was not long before he began to see that Vicky was right 
in resenting Pamela’s perpetual presence in the house. As 
long as she remained at Pendre it was difficult for them to 
resume a wholly normal life. She kept them all, as it were, 
close to their grief. Vicky’s exasperation was not really 
exaggerated or unnatural—it was indeed an almost wholesome 
protest against this nursing of a great grief in a world where 
there was still so much work to be accomplished. Vicky was 
young, and her very youth had begun to clamor for its proper, 
normal joys and pleasures, after the years overshadowed by 
the War. 

And, then, there was Pamela’s influence over Lord Pendre 
to be reckoned with. Vicky had first pointed this out to 
Eustace, and he became aware of it at every turn. None of 

60 


UNDERCURRENTS 61 

his own children—not even Barbara—had ever twisted him, 
so to speak, round his or her little finger as did Pamela. 
Vicky rebelled in secret against this exotic influence, and felt 
that Pamela deliberately widened the breach between herself 
and her father. 

Barbara Hammond’s arrival with her small son, a few 
days later, created a diversion that was something of a relief. 
Her *boy, who was now two and a half years old, was a 
handsome, sturdy dark child, resembling Philip, whose name 
he bore. He was indeed almost absurdly like the photographs 
of his uncle taken at the same age. Lord Pendre was ex¬ 
tremely attached to his grandson. A regular Wingrave! 
Possessing even at that early and immature age signs of the 
desperate obstinacy, the ceaseless energy, the indomitable will 
that characterized your true Wingrave. Supposing Eustace 
shouldn’t turn out satisfactorily, it was a comfort to feel that 
in another twenty years Barbara’s son would be available to 
direct the fortunes of the firm. 

The little fellow, with the unerring instinct of childhood, 
was aware of his grandfather’s predilection, and was wholly 
without that fear of him which had characterized his own 
children at that early age. 

Both Barbara and Pamela were completely absorbed in the 
little Philip. Their stay at Pendre was necessarily a short 
one, as Gerard Hammond could not leave town, and disliked 
being separated from his wife and son. But while it lasted, 
Eustace noticed that he saw much less of Pamela Webb. 

Barbara brought a new element to Pendre. She was gay, 
smart, and assured, and perfectly contented with her lot as 
the wife of a rich stockbroker. Her life in London was full 
of interests, domestic, social, philanthropic. She loved her 
husband and adored her child. Although she was only, a 
year or two older than Eustace, she always seemed to him 
a great deal older. Perhaps it was due to that slightly supe¬ 
rior manner of hers, suggestive of deeper personal experiences 
than any he could yet have savored. Vicky called it her 
“married airs.” Barbara was pretty in a fair, brilliant, 
vivacious way, and her clothes were always appropriate and 


62 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


very perfect. Her outlook was quite frankly materialistic, 
and she shared her father’s respect for wealth and position 
and all the temporal advantages of success. 

Pamela always reacted swiftly to new attractive influences, 
and soon her very clothes assumed a brighter look, and some¬ 
thing of Barbara’s hard, assured gaiety seemed to inform 


Barbara sought out Eustace in the smoking-room one morn¬ 
ing. She had for some days wished to “have it out” with 
her brother, and the time of her own departure was drawing 
near, so she felt bound to make use of her first opportunity. 
It wasn’t altogether easy to get hold of Eustace; he seemed 
intuitively to discern the fact when anyone wanted to say 
something to him that wasn’t quite to his taste; it made him 
slippery, elusive. . . . 

But although “demobbed” officers all the world over were 
finding themselves depayses, there was really no excuse for 
Eustace to suffer from that particular form of discontent. 
He had a good post waiting for him, and he knew it. Of 
course just at first this disposition to idleness was natural; 
he probably needed rest after his long arduous work, with all 
its attendant hardships and privations. Only, he must be 
made to see that this sort of thing couldn’t go on forever. 
For a very young man it was decidedly demoralizing. . . . 

“Well, Eustie, you’ll have to give up day-dreaming soon,” 
she said, cheerfully. He was sitting by the fire reading, pipe 
in mouth, looking the picture of idleness. His attitude an¬ 
noyed Barbara. 

Her bright bracing manner displayed a faint touch of 
irritability. 

“Naturally, you’ll take Phip’s place in the firm,” she con¬ 
tinued, addressing still the back of his brown head turned 
resolutely toward her. “Gerard says he quite envies you. 
So many very able young men are looking for jobs, that it’s 
quite a comfort to think yours is only waiting for you to step 
into!” 


UNDERCURRENTS 63 

“Is it? But, you see, the trouble is that I’ve not yet made 
up my mind what I’m going to do.” 

He puffed away at his pipe. 

She opened her big blue eyes very wide. “What on earth 
do you mean, Eustie?” 

“Just what I say. I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I 
hate engineering—I pity those poor chaps that work up at 
Wingrave’s, with all my heart. And I wasn’t brought up to 
be an elder son. I find my new honors rather overwhelming!” 
There was a keen edge of satire in his voice. It exasperated 
Barbara afresh. 

“Oh, Eustie darling—don’t be an idiot!” she entreated. 

It was not thus that Gerard received her words of advice 
and counsel. But relations were always tiresome to deal 
with; they never seemed to see eye to eye with one. They 
took refuge in unnecessary sarcasms . . . 

His face did not relent. It was cold and stern; the lips 
firmly compressed, suggesting a complete reticence. She 
thought involuntarily: “What a hungry look he has about 
the eyes! What can he want that he hasn’t got ?” 

“I’ll try not to be,” he said presently, with a slight ironic 
smile. Barbara always made him feel nervous; he dreaded 
her swift acute vision, her readiness to detect the weak spot 
in one’s armor and attack it. . . . 

In a sense he admired her. She had got exactly what she 
wanted; she was ambitious, successful, popular both with 
men and women. Her marriage was a happy one; she was 
perhaps a happier woman than her mother had ever been. 

“She’s got all she wants—she doesn’t know there’s anything 
else,” he thought, turning his head and looking into her 
bright, rather hard face. He saw that she was immensely 
typical of all the “smart” young women of her day, very 
slenderly made, very clear-cut, perfectly attired, beautifully 
coiffee. 

He turned away and sank back into the dreamland from 
which she had awakened him. He wondered if he was really 
the only one of the four children to suffer under that dismal 
lack of all spirituality in their lives. Long before he had 


64 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

faced wounds and death in the trenches, and endured a 
measure of cold and privation that had sometimes seemed 
insupportable, he had been aware of that lack. He could 
remember one night—a warm and beautiful night in Pales¬ 
tine, full of wonderful starlight, when he had had a strange 
mystical experience that he had never been able to explain. 
But it was that more than anything that had made him say 
to his mother: “I love Him, you know. I used to think He 
seemed near me.” Just that—the nearness, the individual 
love and protection . . . extended even to the sparrows. It 
had come and gone all too swiftly, like the brushing of wings, 
a fleeting touch that had yet had an objective existence. He 
could not speak of it to anyone, even to his mother. And 
least of all to Barbara—she would quite certainly have 
thought him mad. . . . 

“Well, I daresay Dad'll be willing to give you a few 
months’ holiday first,” she observed. “Most men have come 
back with their nerves a bit dicky.” 

“My nerves are quite all right, thank you. It’s really more 
than a year since I was last potted at. It jolly nearly got 
me too,” he added, with a smile that was slightly grim. 

Barbara sat down near him. 

“Do listen, Eustie—it’s very important, you know. I’ve 
been having a talk to Dad about you, and of course he 
realizes that you’ve had no special training, and then you 
didn’t even have one year at Oxford as Phip did. We agreed 
that you’d probably hate office life at first, and you haven’t 
any taste for engineering.” As she spoke, she purposely 
employed that charm of manner which with her always 
signified a deadly and dynamic determination of purpose. 
She looked at her brother closely, rather as if she were meas¬ 
uring his powers of endurance, for he was a little strange to 
her after their long separation—why, he had been still at 
school when she married! And if in the interval she had 
known fresh experiences, he too could not have been wholly 
without them. There was something almost a little forbidding 
about him now, as if he were inclined to resent interference 
and gratuitously-proffered advice, no matter how well-meant. 


UNDERCURRENTS 65 

4 1 m sure you’ll find him quite willing to give you a holiday 
before you go north,” she continued. 

“Did Dad tell you to say that ?” he inquired, with lowering 
brow. 

“Well, not exactly. But you’ve shown him you weren’t 
exactly anxious to discuss your future with him ... he 
must have guessed there was a hitch somewhere.” 

So it had been discussed, and he wondered if his mother had 
been present. Perhaps she had even interceded for him, in 
order to obtain the grace of this brief reprieve. They all 
knew how repugnant this career would be to him, and so they 
were anxious, as it were, to let him down easily, perhaps 
indeed suspecting that this was their only chance of gaining 
his ultimate consent. 

“I don’t want money! I hate it!” he exclaimed, with 
sudden vehemence. “And I think you’re all mad to put it 
before everything! Before happiness, religion, peace of 
mind. ...” 

She was surprised and startled, and it took her a few 
seconds in which to recover from the onslaught of these 
fierce unexpected words. The dark deep-set eyes were glow¬ 
ering at her, like those of some sullen animal at bay before 
its would-be tamers. Then she gave a little short laugh that 
did not ring quite true. 

“Don’t lose your temper, Eustie dear—it isn’t worth while. 
We all have to do quantities of things we hate in this world. 
And we women have the worst of it in the long run.” 

She was bright and conciliatory as ever, and only very 
slightly ruffled by his obstinate attitude. Eustace thought 
that some day she ought to enter the political world; she 
would certainly excel in persuading incredulous people that 
measures, disagreeable in themselves, would be for their ulti¬ 
mate good. 

“What a pity you weren’t a boy, Barbara,” he said good- 
humoredly. “You’d have filled the part of elder son toppingly. 
You’ve all the qualities, and the governor depends upon you.” 

His brief anger had spent itself. And, after all, she was 
not to blame. She was the child of her upbringing, her 


66 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

environment, her education. The mould had fitted her. 
Never, as far back as he could remember, had she ever 
evinced the slightest rebellion against her lot. He could 
always picture her as dainty, well-behaved, a composed little 
woman of the world, even in the nursery. No one had ever 
dreamed of punishing Barbara; there could have been no 
possible excuse for such an outrage. Her instinctive tact 
had always shown her exactly how far she could go, and 
the way of the transgressor had held no attraction for her. 
Whereas he and Vicky had eternally courted penalties by their 
frequent insensate mutinies. Lord Pendre, indulgent to his 
two elder children, had proved a merciless disciplinarian to 
the younger ones. “My dear,” he used to say to his wife, 
who disliked scenes, “if you won’t punish them, I must.” 
And punish them he did, going back to the drastic measures 
that had obtained in his own boyhood forty years before. 

“I hope I should have always tried to do my duty,” said 
Barbara, pointedly. 

A model daughter, wife and mother—that was her ambi¬ 
tion. She had fulfilled the three parts meticulously, never 
shirking anything that they might entail, and only demanding 
in return that her surroundings and externals should be model 
too, luxurious, expensive, unimpeachable. The decor must be 
perfect, the limelight carefully adjusted. Only then could she 
be at her best. . . . 

But something in her tone irritated Eustace to renewed 
perverseness. 

“Look here, Barbara,” he said, eying her coolly, “it isn’t 
any use your trying to coerce me. I’m not going into the 
firm—I should make a most unholy mess of things if I did. 
I don’t want the money. And I must be free—free to do all 
kinds of things that don’t enter into your life or imagination! 
You simply haven’t time for them, and you wouldn’t want 
them if you had. You and Gerard are probably just as much 
suffocated with luxury as they are here. You’re a pair of 
materialists like Dad, only it’s worse because you’re younger. 
Oh, I’m not blaming either him or you—it’s the way you and 


UNDERCURRENTS 67 

all your sort are made. But you shan’t induce me to sell my 
soul!” 

“Why, you’re quite a Bolshie , Eustie,” she said. “How 
awfully funny of you!” 

“I was expecting that,” he answered sullenly. 

They were aware then of some slight stir, and, turning 
abruptly, they saw that Lady Pendre had come quietly into 
the room and was standing irresolutely on the threshold, her 
white fingers still nervously clasping the handle of the door. 
She was very pale. 

“What were you saying about selling your soul, Eustie?” 
she asked with a very faint tremor in her voice. 

3 

Eustace rose and went a step toward his mother. Somehow 
he didn’t feel so hopeless of gaining her understanding sym¬ 
pathy as he did that of his sister. 

“I was just explaining to Barbara why I can’t go into the 
business, but I’m afraid I shall never make her understand. 
She’s been talking to Dad about it. I should hate it and I 
don’t want the money—I’d rather starve.” 

“Try starving,” murmured Barbara, sweetly. 

“Thanks, I’ve lived for several days on emergency rations— 
it was a pretty good imitation.” 

Lady Pendre looked a little anxiously from one to the 
other. She admired her daughter, appreciating her beauty, 
her assurance, her social gifts. But no one on earth wa3 
further from her than Barbara in her present phase. With 
her brilliant marriage, she seemed to have passed completely 
out of her possession; she had sometimes a little difficulty in 
realizing that this was her own child. 

But her sympathies were with Eustace. He had played 
his part very manfully—the soldier’s part for which he was 
so entirely unsuited both physically and mentally. She said 
coldly: 

“Eustace is twenty-two. We can none of us force him into 
doing anything he doesn’t like.” 


68 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“I was only telling him what Dad wishes,” said Barbara, 
“but that doesn’t seem to count. Eustie’s got these queer 
Bolshie ideas into his head, and until he gets rid of them it 
would be no earthly use his going into the business—he’d do 
more harm than good there.” 

“Well, we want him to have a little holiday before he starts 
work of any kind,” said Lady Pendre, almost apologetically. 
Barbara often had the effect of making her feel apologetic, 
as if she really had no right to express her opinion. “He 
wants a good long rest.” She looked at him and smiled, and 
suddenly she thought of the little crucifix that lay hidden 
under his shirt. It made him seem nearer somehow, and 
dearer. 

“Oh, Dad isn’t unreasonable,” said Barbara, coolly; “he’s 
quite willing to give him six months’ holiday—in fact, he 
wants him to have it—he sees it wouldn’t be the slightest use 
to fling him into an office in his present mood.” 

“Six months!” said Eustace, contemptuously. “But that 
isn’t the point. The point is that he wants to try to make 
an elder son of me and it isn’t to be done. I simply can’t 
take Phip’s place. I wish Dad had never accepted that beastly 
title. I’ve always pitied King George for having had to take 
on his job—he must have hated it. Why, you’ll be wanting 
me to marry Pamela next!” he added fiercely. 

“You needn’t be afraid. Pamela wouldn’t look at you after 
Phip,” responded Barbara tartly. 

“It depends how much she wanted to be Lady Pendre,” said 
Eustace. 

All the time he was secretly furious with himself for his 
almost childish display of ill-humor, aware that it was absurd 
and undignified. He oughtn’t to have allowed himself to be 
dragged into this futile discussion with Barbara. And yet, 
confronted by her superior gaze, her calm reasonableness, 
he hadn’t been able to repress his irritation. Even in his 
nursery days her contempt for his shortcomings had exasper¬ 
ated him in precisely the same way. She could still tear his 
nerves to ribbons. 

He knew, too, that he had been less than fair to Pamela, 


UNDERCURRENTS 


69 


who, despite her slight tendency to intrigue, had been truly 
devoted to his brother. But it was this quest of money, 
wealth, and success, to the exclusion of all holy and beauti¬ 
ful and desirable things, that so nauseated him. 

“Pm going out with Vicky/’ he said, moving toward the 
door. “If you talk to Dad again about it, Barbara, you can 
tell him just what I’ve said.” 

His voice was still sullen, but as he passed his mother, 
their eyes met and he smiled at her. He realized then that 
her expression at that moment was very beautiful, full of a 
tender maternal solicitude and pity. She wasn’t angry or 
annoyed with him as he feared that she might be. She could 
see past the petulant surface ill-humor to the very real and 
profound need that was asserting itself in his heart. And 
he recalled with a fresh pang her swift sudden movement 
when she had stooped and kissed the silver crucifix that had 
been his companion both in Palestine and Iraq. 

4 

When they were alone Barbara turned to her mother. 

“What is going to happen ?” she said, in a tone of real con¬ 
cern. “We can do nothing with him—he’s worse than he 
ever was. And he and Vicky must be particularly bad for 
each other. I hope he will really decide to go away for a 
few months; he’ll get on Dad’s nerves so dreadfully if he 
stays. And then with all this silly fuss about Vicky!” 

“I’m sure Eustace finds his position a very difficult one,” 
said Lady Pendre. “I think myself he ought to be quite free 
for a time. And I doubt his ever standing that office life-— 
he isn’t in sympathy—he’d always hate it.” She sighed. 

“Why on earth can’t he accept his new position quietly 
without so much talk ? Comparing himself to King George!” 
Barbara’s voice was full of resentful irony. She was so sane 
and normal herself that she sometimes seemed to her mother 
scarcely human. 

“He never wished to be the elder son—he hates the idea,” 
said Lady Pendre, “and coming back has brought it all home 


70 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

to him. There was bound to be an outburst of some kind. 
Eustace always speaks his mind. We must be patient and 
try to help him.” 

She couldn't of course show Barbara how entirely she was 
with her son in his new aims. She could put herself in his 
place with an anguish of sympathy and see with his eyes. 

. . . She could remember the futile rebellion of her own 
youth, never voiced aloud, scarcely even suspected by her 
weak and dissolute father. But the young were different now; 
they were informed with a new spirit; they did not accept 
blindly; they looked and weighed, and took nothing on trust. 

“It seems to me that everyone’s nerves are on edge here/* 
continued Barbara. “And I’m sure it’s Eustace’ fault—he’s 
in such a queer mood—takes offense at the least little thing. 
He’s worse than most demobbed men. Vicky’s as cross and 
rude as she can be just because Dad has put his foot down 
about that silly flirtation with Martin Sedgwick, and Pamela 
says she’s so unbearable to her that she really doesn’t think 
she’ll be able to remain here much longer. She feels Vicky’s 
hostility so very much. I’d ask Pam to come back with me 
for a bit when I go, but you know how Gerard hates my 
having people staying in the house, especially a woman. He 
likes me to be quite free to go about with him, and I really 
must consider him.” 

“Of course you must. And Pamela can quite well go to 
her own home for a little. She hasn’t been there for more 
than a year.” 

“There’s no need for her to go away at all,” said Barbara, 
with decision. “Can’t you speak to Vicky about her 
behavior ?” 

“No. I never do, you know,” said Lady Pendre, almost 
as if in self-exculpation; she really felt so very inefficient 
beside Barbara. “But your father has, of course.” 

“You let her do just as she likes!” 

Lady Pendre was silent. All through her married life she 
had just stood aside. Let others do the correcting, rebuking, 
exhorting! She had resigned her share, in little things as 
well as in great. 


UNDERCURRENTS 71 

“Dad must speak to her again, then. Vicky’s getting a 

little beyond herself.” ? 

“Oh, don’t say anything about it, Barbara. Your father s 
inclined to be hard on her as it is. He was so very annoyed 
about Martin. And the poor child is so miserable!” 

“But this sort of thing can’t possibly go on. It would be 
only kind to put a stop to it—it’s so uncomfortable for every¬ 
one, and bad for Vicky, too, to think she can behave just as 

she likes!” . 

“I’d rather Pamela went away than that,” said Lady Pendre. 

It was always her inclination to shirk a difficult situation 
rather than to face it boldly and deal with it decisively and 
vigorously. And since Eustace’ return she had perceived 
with something like dismay that Vicky’s subtle antagonism to 
Pamela had deepened and become more avowed and explicit. 
But it was no part of her plan to step in and ameliorate mat¬ 
ters, or even to warn Vicky of the folly of her attitude, since 
her father would be little likely to listen to the suggestion 
that Pamela should go away for a time. 

It might be that he had other hopes concerning her, though 
he had not told his wife so. But perhaps Eustace had not 
been so far from the truth when he had said bitterly they 
would be wanting him to marry Pamela next. Lady Pendre 
felt certain that some such idea was slowly germinating in 
her husband’s brain. He was deeply attached to the girl, 
openly preferring her to his own daughter, and Pamela was 
clever enough to make herself indispensable to him. Once 
during the illness of his secretary she had offered to help 
him with his correspondence, and had proved herself indus¬ 
trious and competent. She wielded a considerable, influence 
over the hard, inexorable man. And especially she influenced 
him in regard to Vicky. The breach between father and 
daughter grew every day more apparent. Lady Pendre did 
not blame Pamela entirely for this unhappy state of things 
Vicky herself was unfortunately very deeply to blame. Her 
wild rebellious spirit, goaded by the anguish of being sepa¬ 
rated from Martin, was at the root of much of her own un- 


72 


CHILDREN OP THE SHADOW 


happiness. She was perpetually coming into conflict with 
her father about trifles. 

It might be that the possibility of a marriage between 
Eustace and Pamela had occurred to Vicky. With her quick 
imagination, a ready intuition, she had perhaps divined her 
father’s hopes on this point. Nothing could possibly have 
been more distasteful to her than such a marriage for her 
favorite brother, and she would be certain to combat it with 
all her puny force. There was a strong admixture of jealousy 
in her attitude toward Pamela. She had seen this girl slowly 
but surely usurping the place that should have been hers. 
Pamela behaved and was treated like a beloved elder daugh¬ 
ter, but she should not, in addition to this, rob her of Eustace. 

What Pamela’s feelings on the subject were, it was more 
difficult to say. That she had loved Philip very much, Lady 
Pendre did not doubt; but she was hardly the woman to be 
blind or indifferent to the worldly advantages accruing to the 
position of the future Lady Pendre. That Philip was his 
father’s elder son had no doubt increased his value in her 
eyes. 

Lady Pendre looked up, aware that her daughter’s eyes 
were fixed upon her. 

“I’ve sometimes thought that perhaps Pamela and Ernest 
Soames—” she began tentatively. 

“Ernest? Why, I’d no idea they knew each other,” said 
Barbara. 

Her mother saw that for some reason or other the idea 
was not welcome to her. Some years before, he had made 
Barbara an offer of marriage, but she was already in love 
with Gerard Hammond, and had been resolute in her refusal. 
Lord Pendre liked Soames; he had not been at all averse to 
the idea. But Barbara was intensely ambitious, and to settle 
down on an adjoining property with a man who rarely left 
it except for purposes of sport, did not coincide with her 
views of amusement. It was sufficiently dull at Pendre— 
they had so few neighbors—but it would have been far, far 
more dull at Moth Hill Park. 

“He’s been coming here a great deal lately—more than he’s 


UNDERCURRENTS 73 

ever done before,” remarked Lady Pendre. “And it struck 
me that perhaps he admired Pamela.” 

“Does she like him—encourage him?” inquired Barbara. 

“Oh, she never shows her feelings. But Pm almost sure he 
likes her. He had been here so little of late years.” 

Barbara meditated upon this in silence. She, too, had 
thought and even hoped that perhaps Eustace—! But after 
his speech that morning he had shown them the necessity of 
approaching him with prudence and caution. His suspicions 
were already aroused; they must therefore proceed warily. 

“I think if I were Pamela I should try not to see too much 
of Ernest just now,” said Barbara, oracularly. 

“Oh, I don’t suppose that it’s ever entered her head that 
he comes to see her,” hastily interpolated Lady Pendre. 

“But who on earth should he want to see, then?” inquired 
her daughter. 

“Oh, he likes a chat with your father,” replied Lady Pendre. 


CHAPTER Y 


The Shadow 

1 

"C'USTACE was walking with Vicky in the woods that 
garmented the slopes above Pendre. They were each 
holding by a leash a dog of fiercely predatory proclivities. 
The girl was flushed with exercise and with the effort of 
keeping her canine companion under due restraint. She 
wore rough tweed country clothes, with a short skirt and 
loose-fitting leather-bound jacket, and a blue woolen scarf 
twisted round her neck. Her hair was uncovered. There was 
a contrast between the homeliness of her brown garments, 
and her tiny, delicately-drawn face, with its deep haunting 
eyes. 

They pushed their way through the tangled undergrowth, 
leafless now but sharp and thorny and inclined to fly back 
and scourge the face of the unwary intruder. The dogs 
yelped and struggled for freedom, sniffing the proximity of 
furred and feathered quarry, and almost going mad with ex¬ 
citement when they startled a magnificent cock-pheasant, that 
flew away with a shrill cry of alarm. The path through the 
woods was narrow, and slightly slippery from recent frost. 
Vicky followed Eustace during the ascent. 

They were clear of the woods at last. Gorse and bramble 
bushes broke the monotony of the hillside and straggled 
toward the summit of Moth Hill, whose green turfed slopes 
were cleft in the center by a narrow chain of wind-bitten 
trees descending perpendicularly. The two curves of its sum¬ 
mit, springing sharply from the copse to right and left, 
imbued it with something of the fantastic aspect of a moth 

74 


THE SHADOW 


75 


with outspread wings, of which the trees formed the body. 
Floating cloud-shadows made exquisite purple patterns on the 
green grass. From the top there was a beautiful view, stretch¬ 
ing westward to the far misty silhouettes of the Welsh moun¬ 
tains, while below them was the long blue line of the Irish 
sea, with its broad bar of surf shining beyond the brown 
Pendre woods and the meadows that sloped almost to the 
shore. 

Three or four little coast towns revealed themselves by the 
blue mist of smoke that hung over their clustered red houses. 
St. David's Bay in the far distance was the nearest town of 
any importance. Nearby was the modern seaside resort of 
Llyn, whose villas and houses were gradually invading the 
lower slopes of the hills. 

As they neared the top, they saw two figures approaching 
them from the opposite direction. One was a young girl, 
perhaps a year or two older than Victoria Wingrave, the 
other a thin, dark, elderly woman of slightly foreign aspect. 
Eustace glanced at the girl. She was tall and straight as a 
wand, with brilliant golden-red hair that produced an almost 
dazzling effect of color. Her eyes were darkly blue, and her 
complexion was of that pure pink and white that so often 
accompanies brightly-colored hair. It was a beautiful little 
face, he decided, although he had had but one swift passing 
glimpse of it. Something about the girl had given him the 
impression of happy and vigorous youth. Her clear un¬ 
troubled eyes seemed to assure him that she had no perplexing 
problems to disturb the serenity of her heart and mind. 

The strangers passed them quickly; they were walking at 
a good pace. Eustace stood aside on the grass to make way 
for them on the narrow path. He thought that the girl bent 
her head slightly in acknowledgement of his action. Then 
he and Vicky resumed their climb. It was not till they had 
reached the top of Moth Hill that he turned to her and said: 

“Who are they? Do you know them?" 

Vicky often lamented the scarcity of girls of her own age 
in a neighborhood that indeed offered them few acquaintances 
of any kind. Yet here was a girl who at first glance seemed 


76 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


an eminently desirable companion for her, and who could 
assuredly live at no great distance from Pendre. 

“The girl is Miss Tresham, from Glen Cottage—you know 
that tiny place just outside Moth Hill Park. It belongs to 
Mr. Soames, and he let it to Mrs. Tresham about two years 
ago. She is very delicate, and that lady lives with them. I 
think she’s some relation.” 

“Hasn’t Mummie called on them?” asked Eustace. 

“No. I did ask her to—I liked the look of the girl—I’d 
seen her once or twice in Llyn. There’s something about 
them—against them, I think. Intriguing, isn’t it ? Dad 
doesn’t want us to know them.” 

She spoke satirically. Here was a girl with whom she felt 
she might be intimate—there was something so young and 
joyous about her—she had such a happy smiling face. In¬ 
stead of which she was forced to depend upon Pamela Webb 
for companionship. Sometimes, but very rarely, a girl was 
invited to spend a few weeks at Pendre in the summer. But 
Vicky was never allowed any choice in the matter, and she 
had little in common with most of these carefully-selected 
guests. 

Eustace was not at all susceptible, and he came to the con¬ 
clusion that the girl must have been unusually pretty and 
attractive to arrest his attention and interest in the way she 
had done. 

“I’d like to know her—I’m sure she’d be simpatica,” con¬ 
tinued Vicky, in an aggrieved tone. “But the Powers never 
like the same people I do.” 

“She is certainly very pretty,” agreed Eustace, meditatively. 

“Besides, they must think it so awfully queer of us not to 
call. Living hardly a mile away, and knowing lots of our 
friends.” Vicky’s voice was still resentful. 

Glen Cottage lay between Pendre and Llyn, tucked away 
in the hollow of Moth Hill. Vicky had often passed it in 
her walks with Miss Brigstocke, and wished that she had 
known its inmates. 

“Oh, Eustie, isn’t it perfectly rotten here? Don’t you long 


THE SHADOW 77 

to go away? I do, and yet I feel it might be *o heavenly at 
Pendre 1” 

He was silent. He did not wish to increase her dissatis¬ 
faction by revealing anything of his own. Vicky had reached 
the age when youth, inevitably and even wholesomely, spreads 
its wings for flight and freedom. They had both indeed 
arrived at a critical moment in their respective lives, he con¬ 
sciously, and Vicky still unconsciously. 

“Is marriage the only way of escape? I shall never be 
allowed to marry Martin, and if they choose someone for me, 
he’s sure to be exactly the same kind of person as Gerard. I 
should feel worse than ever imprisoned if I were in Bar¬ 
bara’s shoes. Knowing there was never to be anything else 
but Gerard and babies!” She made a little moue of disgust. 
Her critical, superior brother-in-law was intensely antipa¬ 
thetic to her. Of course, she liked the little Philip; he was 
such a handsome sturdy intelligent child, but it was difficult 
to approach him with any degree of intimacy, so surrounded 
and enveloped was he by regulations and restrictions em¬ 
bodying the latest hygienic methods of infant-rearing. 

“Well, I hope you will marry, one of these days. If it’s not 
the only way of escape it’s a fairly safe one for a woman. I 
wish, too, it could be Martin—you’d suit each other down to 
the ground. He’s an awfully good sort, and he’s a clever 
chap—he’s bound to get on. I daresay they’ll give in when 
they see you’re really serious about it. Of course, at present 
they think you’re rather too young.” 

“I’m as old as Barbara was when she got engaged to 
Gerard.” 

“You’re more of a baby than she ever was,” he reminded 
hef. 

Behind Moth Hill the scenery was beautiful—wooded hills, 
park-like lands, fertile fields, and a river that broadened out 
to a beautiful lake. Far off the Welsh mountains were dimly 
visible, their summits wrapped in torn rags of cloud. 

“Don’t you know anything more about the Treshams?” in¬ 
quired Eustace, his thoughts suddenly reverting to the girl 
of whom he had had that one enchanting glimpse. 


78 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“Only that Mrs. Tresham is partly Italian. Her husband 
was English and he’s been dead a long time. She’s only got 
that one girl and they’re hard up, I believe. They must be or 
they wouldn’t live in that tiny cottage. Someone said they 
were Roman Catholics—I expect it’s true, for they never go 
to the parish church.” 

Roman Catholics? The words produced a curious impres¬ 
sion upon Eustace, and he was unable to analyze it sufficiently 
to determine at once whether it were one of interest or of 
slight repugnance. But, on the whole, he decided that this 
new knowledge rather added to than detracted from the charm 
of Miss Tresham. And he thought of her again, as if viewing 
her from a new standpoint. He had felt attracted by her 
beauty, her joyousness that yet had nothing to do with gaiety, 
and held even a serious quality, as if it sprang from some 
deep fundamental contentment. 

Why did his mother hold aloof from them? Why had his 
father vetoed any conventional approach to these tenants of 
the little cottage, so close to their own gates? As a rule, 
Lady Pendre called upon all their neighbors; she was always 
quite friendly, though never intimate. She was the least 
snobbish of women and did not care if people were rich or 
poor, well-born or the reverse. Eustace sought in vain for 
a solution to the enigma. It could only be because the Powers 
feared that a girlish friendship might spring up between Miss 
Tresham and Vicky. Why they should dislike this idea was 
another matter. His speculation on the point reached no 
profitable conclusion. Lord Pendre was often harsh and 
arbitrary in his decrees, and always he feared that associa¬ 
tion with modern, independent spirits would still further in¬ 
crease Vicky’s natural tendency to insubordination and 
mutiny. 

The girl’s figure, instinct with grace and health and young 
supple strength, as he had seen it outlined against the cold 
pure blue of the winter sky on the top of Moth Hill, seemed 
in a sense to haunt him. 

So far he had not formulated any actual plan for making 
her acquaintance, since while he lived under his father’s roof 


THE SHADOW 


79 


he was resolved as far as possible to accept his tyranny. Be¬ 
sides, it would be foolish to annoy him in small matters when 
his great overt act of rebellion was so soon to be accomplished. 
But that did not prevent him from secretly resenting Lord 
Pendre’s refusal to know the Treshams. It seemed to him an 
act of gratuitous tyranny. And it could surely have nothing 
to do with their religion, since his father was obviously so 
indifferent to spiritual things. His weekly pilgrimage to the 
parish church was considered essential as an example to those 
wavering souls who might otherwise have deemed their own 
presence there unnecessary. To connect it with his own 
spiritual profit would certainly never have occurred to him. 

“I’ve only seen Miss Tresham two or three times, but I 
can’t help liking her, though we’ve never spoken to each 
other,” said Vicky, breaking in upon his thoughts. “I feel 
we might be friends. It ’ud be something to have a friend of 
my own age in this howling wilderness,” she added dis¬ 
contentedly. 

He smiled at her. “You’re as rebellious as ever,” he told 
her. 

“Things don’t change here, but I don’t feel half so bad 
when you are at home. I hope you’ll stay for ages.” 

His face clouded. Even he, with his superior patience and 
acquired philosophy, felt that he couldn’t stand too much of 
Pendre just now. But, then, he had tasted freedom and in¬ 
dependence, and Vicky was really hardly old enough as yet 
for complete emancipation. Their cases could not be com¬ 
pared. 

She slipped her hand in his arm, and they walked on, side 
by side. The dogs, released now from bondage, were scam¬ 
pering wildly over the grass, rolling and playing roughly 
together, uttering short barks, attacking each other with huge 
open maws that looked menacing but were in reality perfectly 
friendly. 

“Eustie,” she said presently, “has it ever occurred to you 
that the Powers would like you to marry Pamela?” 

He was slightly startled, for he had believed that this fact 
had somehow escaped her notice. 


80 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

“It has indeed/' he replied, dryly. “But I'm not going to, 
so make your mind easy. And I'm not such a coxcomb as to 
suppose she would marry me even if I asked her.” His smile 
reassured her. 

“But you might make her care,” Vicky observed, comforted 
rather than convinced. 

“I'm not going to try. Vicky, you mustn’t think because 
you’re fool enough to be so fond of me that I’m quite ir¬ 
resistible !” 

“I’ve been simply so horribly afraid of it, you know,” she 
whispered, clinging to him a little. “She’s so sweet to you— 
she’s always trying to attract your attention—to catch you 
alone. And she hates me because she knows I see through 
all her little plots and plans. I do wish she’d go away. ...” 

“Vicky, my child,—you’re imagining things!” 

“Oh, it isn’t imagination—I only wish it were! It’s the 
truth, and you must have noticed it too. Yesterday after 
lunch she made an excuse to go and look for a book in the 
library. And I’m sure it was because she knew you were 
there alone. She was just half an hour finding it—I timed 
her,” Vicky added, maliciously. 

This little revelation made Eustace feel slightly uncom¬ 
fortable. He had tried to persuade himself that Pamela 
wasn’t for some occult reason endeavoring to enlist his sup¬ 
port against Vicky. That she had followed him into the 
library was true, and soon she had called upon him to help 
her in the search. He had had a horrid malevolent little doubt 
at the time as to whether the book were there at all. But she 
had ended by discovering it. Purposely his manner to her 
had been icy but polite. 

Of course he had perceived that his father hoped he would 
take Philip’s place in this as in other things. It was not quite 
fortuitously that he had exclaimed to Barbara: “Why, you’ll 
be wanting me to marry Pamela next!” He seemed to have 
known what was in their minds since the first day of his re¬ 
turn. In other circumstances he might have shown the girl 
a more kindly friendliness, but this suspicion had put him 
strongly on his guard. She and Barbara were intimate friends 


THE SHADOW 


81 


—there was no knowing what they might discuss in those 
“heart-to-heart” talks over Mrs. Hammond’s fire. Barbara 
was quite capable of delicately hinting to Pamela that such 
an arrangement would certainly be smiled upon approvingly 
by the Powers. 

But aloud he only said: “You mustn’t be such a little beast 
to Pamela. It’ll only make trouble.” 

“I’m not really a beast, at least I don’t want to be. But 
some people do put one’s back up, don’t they, Eustie? And 
unfortunately it’s generally just the ones we have to live 
with! I was frightfully sorry for her at first, of course—we 
all were. But it’s more than two years ago—we none of us 
feel it as much as we did then, except perhaps poor 
Mummie. ...” 

They stood there for a few minutes in silence on the crest 
of Moth Hill. Although it was still early in March, it was 
impossible not to discern a faint bloom upon the brown woods, 
while here and there a pale drift of almond blossom, the 
sharp emerald of young larch boughs, declared themselves 
with a more emphatic note of color. The wind that raced 
over the hill, driving stately battalions of cloud before it, was 
young and vigorous—the very child of spring. . . . 

2 

“There’s something I want to tell you, Eustie.” 

Vicky pulled her brother’s sleeve, and he knew by experi¬ 
ence that a highly confidential communication would follow. 

“Is it about Martin?” he said. “I’m not sure that I ought 
to encourage you—!” 

“It’s got nothing to do with Martin. Don’t be absurd—I’ve 
told you all there is to know about him. No—it’s something 
much more serious than that.” 

They walked a few paces down the hillside. The path was 
slippery, and Vicky leaned a little on her brother s arm. 

“It was something that happened—when the telegram came. 
About Phip, you know.” 

Eustace looked a little uncomfortable. Secretly he had 


82 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


always been thankful that he had escaped that bitter hour at 
Pendre when the news of the death of the first-born had 
reached them. He was not sure, even now, that he wished to 
hear any painful details. He would have stopped his sister 
if it had been possible, but he dared not. Since his return 
he had been aware of a new and raw sensitiveness that was 
frequently apparent in her. Little, quite unlikely things 
seemed to hurt her. 

“Tell me,” he said gently. 

“Dad got it first, of course—you know, he always opens 
telegrams. He came into the green drawing-room where 
Mummie and I were sitting. He had the telegram in his 
hand, and we saw by his face that something awful had hap¬ 
pened. Oh, Eustie, I was so afraid it was you!” She twined 
her arm round his neck. “But Mummie guessed at once, for 
she got up and said: Ts it Phip?’ She had a queer stunned 
look, and Dad caught hold of her and held her up. She took 
the paper from his hand and read it. I think I was crying— 
it seemed so terrible—and then she said in a very quiet dead 
tone, Tt was I who killed him, Hugo.’ Then she went out 
of the room—I didn’t see her again for several days. She 
stayed in bed—she didn’t want anyone near her. Pamela in¬ 
sisted upon going in to see her, but I didn’t try—I knew how 
much she wanted to be alone. But what do you think she 
meant by saying that, Eustie? It was such—nonsense— 
wasn’t it? When we all know she loved him better than 
anybody!” 

“I can’t possibly imagine what she could have meant,” 
Eustace answered. But a certain sense of mental disquietude, 
of which for several days he had been acutely conscious, was 
appreciably deepened by Vicky’s little recital. “She was 
always so awfully wrapped up in Phip. As you say, she 
cared more for him than for anyone. And he deserved it too 
—he was such a splendid son. He’d never given her an 
hour’s anxiety until he went to France. She couldn’t really 
have known what she was saying—she must have been like 
someone talking in their sleep. It was absurd, of course, for 
her to think she was in the slightest degree responsible.” 


THE SHADOW 


83 


But Vicky had forgotten no detail of that little episode, 
and always she had felt convinced that her mother had meant 
what she said. 

It had all been sharply etched upon her brain; her mother 
standing there, swaying a little despite the strong support of 
her husband’s arm, her face deathly pale, her quiet dead voice 
saying those terrible words without a hint of emotion: It 
was I who killed him , Hugo . . . And Lord Pendre, ghastly 
in his pallor, listening. . . . 

“Dad knew what she meant. He looked as if she’d struck 
him,” Vicky continued. She had not forgotten her father’s 
stricken expression, and ever since then she had believed that 
there was some terrible secret between him and her mother, 
known only to themselves. 

“Pamela wasn’t there?” Eustace asked. 

Vicky shook her head. “I’ve always been so thankful that 
she didn’t hear it. She was out for a walk—she didn’t come 
back till much later.” The relief showed now in the girl’s 
face. “You see, in my heart I don’t trust Pamela.” 

“Oh, I think—I hope—you’re wrong,” Eustace assured her, 
earnestly. 

Still, he was thankful to revert to the subject of Pamela. 
Vicky’s recital had impressed him more than he would have 
cared to reveal, accentuating his mental malaise, making him 
ask himself a hundred questions to which there was no 
answer. 

“She’s so possessive. She can’t rest till she’s intimate with 
people. Look how she’s got hold of Dad—he consults her 
about all sorts of things. And she eggs him on to bully me!” 
Vicky’s eyes flashed. “And I can hardly ever get near Mum- 
mie—Pamela’s always there. Oh, don’t please fall in love 
with her, Eustie—it’s the one thing I feel I couldn’t bear.” 

“I’m not likely to. I hope I’m not such a fool as to fall in 
love with anyone for ages. But if I did it wouldn’t be with 
Pamela.” 

But even as he spoke, the face he had so recently seen 
flashed before his mental vision. Two dark blue eyes met 
his steadily. The mouth was beautifully formed, the nose 


84 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


straight and rather short, the cheeks were tinged with a deep 
rose-color like the bloom on some ripe fruit. 

He wished he could have heard her voice, but she had been 
silent when she passed him. . . . 

“You can’t think what an enormous relief it is to me to 
hear you say that, Eustie,” Vicky was murmuring. 

“I’m glad of that,” he said. 

“Life is such a terrifying experience whichever way you 
look at it,” she went on. 

“Well, the only way is to stand up to it bravely. Not to 
let oneself be frightened.” 

She looked up into his face, with grave penetrating eyes. 

“If one were quite sure there was really Something . . . 
trying to help us . . . caring what happened to us . . . being 
sorry for us and all that ... it would be easier I think ...” 

Startled, he turned toward her, his eyes shining. Oh, she 
was half-unconsciously treading the same path as himself— 
perhaps traveling toward the same bourne. Questioning, hop¬ 
ing. . . . With the first fear of life upon her—its first ter¬ 
rors darkening her vision—she was looking round pitifully 
for help. 

Something . . . trying to help . . . Caring . . . being 
sorry. . . . 

“But I’m certain there is, Vicky!” he cried eagerly. “I was 
so sure of it during the War. I felt it even when things were 
at their worst. One can’t believe that Our Lord could do so 
much for us—living on earth—dying for us in such torture 
for our redemption—only to leave us alone forever after, with 
no sure message of His Truth to guide us! It’s just that 
message I want to discover—where it is exactly—and who 
can tell me about it.” 

His grave words, uttered not without emotion, sobered her. 
She found them strangely comforting. 

“When you find it, Eustie, if you ever do, you must tell 
me.” 

“Of course I will—you shall be the first. You see, this 
kind of life we’re leading here—let us eat, drink, and be 
merry, for to-morrow we die—isn’t good enough. It reminds 


THE SHADOW 


85 


one too much of the man in the parable who built the enor¬ 
mous barns and stored up wealth for many years and then 
had to die that night. And money-making isn’t good enough. 
It’s all for the body, isn’t it? Nothing for the miserable little 
starved soul. And I’ve an idea that the soul wants her nour¬ 
ishment and education and training just like the body and 
mind. That’s going to be my job for the next few months, 
my dear—to try to find out. You mustn’t mind if I go away 
—there’s nothing doing at Pendre !” 

He stared before him with a queer far-off expression in 
his shining deep-set eyes. 

3 

Before them the green land dipped almost treeless from 
Moth Hill to the sea. Between the two lay the little red¬ 
brick modern town of Llyn, wrapped in the thin blue haze 
of its own smoke. Scattered upon its outskirts, on the low 
strip of flat land behind the town as well as on the first slopes 
of the hills that lay further back from the sea, there were 
innumerable, jaunty, red and white villas, seldom more than 
two stories high, while many of them were quite frankly 
bungalows. Their architecture was modern, and they were 
evidently planned upon labor-saving lines. High sloping red 
roofs, small leaded panes, rough-cast white walls, character¬ 
ized the greater number of them. Green railings enclosed 
their prim neat gardens. Many of them belonged to well-to- 
do people from the great midland manufacturing towns, or to 
Liverpool merchants, and were often only occupied during 
the summer months or for an occasional week-end. Beyond 
the town of Llyn the Irish Sea showed its limitless blue on 
this day of early spring. The air was full of its clean salt 
tang . . . 

“Oh, I wish you were going to stay here,” Vicky said. “I 
do love having you here. And Dad’s temper has been ever 
so much worse since darling old Phip was killed. Why must 
people show their sorrow for the dead by being hateful to 
the living?” 


86 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

Eustace was silent, but the look he gave her was full of 
compassion. 

“Lately he’s been quite fiendish. And now with Martin 
abroad. ...” The tears stood in her eyes. 

She made him feel as if they were standing together and 
alone upon some remote and isolated spot quite apart from 
the rest of the family. His father—Pamela—Barbara—all 
seemed in some strange manner arrayed against them. And 
his mother? Her position was still, as it had always been to 
him, utterly enigmatical, and he wondered now a little idly 
whether she were not perhaps the loneliest and most isolated 
of them all. No one could possibly regard her as one of the 
active protagonists of the little family drama. She held her¬ 
self aloof—even proudly aloof. Yet, surely, in her heart her 
sympathies must go out to one side or the other. 

“What’s the matter with us, Eustie?” Vicky’s voice was 
strained and emotional. 

“The matter with us ?” he echoed, puzzled at both her words 
and manner. “Why, what should there be, dear Vicky?” 

In trying to reassure her, he was painfully aware that he 
was endeavoring also to quiet those misgivings that were 
tormenting his own heart, eating up its very peace. 

“I feel as if there was something hanging over us— 
threatening us! What have we done to deserve it ? Which 
of us has done anything wrong? I think I’ve felt it more 
since you came back ...” She clung to him. 

“You’re not very complimentary,” he told her with a mock¬ 
ing smile that was slightly forced. But it was all part of his 
effort to calm her—to prevent her if possible from pursuing 
her dreadful investigations as to the nature of that mystery. 
For again he was aware of an extreme uneasiness. Was 
there anything wrong? Was anything menacing them? And 
if so, why? He tried to shake himself free from his own 
secret assent to her words. 

But he could not stop her. Speak she must, and he had 
to listen. 

“I feel as if God were against us,” she whispered in a 


THE SHADOW 8 7 

stricken tone. “What can we have done to offend Him? 
What can any of us have done?’’ 

They stood apart now, facing each other on the bleak hill¬ 
side. Both were pale as death, and their eyes so strangely 
alike, were bright with fear. 

All the time he knew that she had only put his own secret 
and tormenting fear into words. 

“Nothing! Nothing! It can’t be that,” he found himself 
repeating mechanically. 

“But you feel it too, don’t you, Eustie? Oh, can you 
truthfully say that you don’t feel it?” 

“Oh, I feel something, of course,” he admitted cautiously. 
“But it’s so intangible—I’ve often wondered if it wasn’t all 
my imagination. Only, for me, it’s nothing new. I felt it 
before I went away. I’ve felt it for more years than I can 
count—as far back as I can remember anything at all.” 

They walked in silence down the hill, and then followed the 
moist road that ran between tall hedges from Llyn to Pendre. 
Above them a lark was singing, and some sea-gulls flew rest¬ 
lessly. They had descended into the strip of land that lay 
between the sea and the low green hills, spreading away to 
the south. There was no one about. The place was chill, 
damp and deserted. Llyn was behind them now, modern, 
banal, commonplace. 

Eustace never forgot that walk home. He felt as if Des¬ 
tiny, grim and malevolent and ever vigilant, were dogging 
their heels. 

“Anyhow, I can’t believe it’s our fault,” he got out at last. 
“I don’t see how it can be. We’ve done nothing. We lead 
just the ordinary materialistic lives that most people seem to 
when they’ve got enough money. Yet there is something 
. . .’’he paused. “A shadow. I’m so glad we’ve had the 
courage to speak of it to each other, Vicky. Whatever it is 
we’ll share it, and perhaps it’ll never seem quite so bad again, 
now we’ve taken it out and looked at it.” He slipped his hand 
in hers comfortingly. He was trying to console her, regret¬ 
ting perhaps that he had allowed something of his own morbid 
fears to escape him. 


88 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Vicky looked at him, relieved, but still troubled. 

“Sometimes I think Mummie knows,” she said. 

“Perhaps she does.” 

If only, he thought, because of those bitter, self-accusing 
words that she had uttered when the dread news came. For 
him those words had lifted in some slight degree the mystery 
that enveloped her. The shadow ... It was as if she had 
drawn aside a curtain, permitting them a glimpse of some¬ 
thing hidden and terrible, though still unexplained. 

“You couldn’t ask her, could you, Eustie?” 

“Not if I know it! Vicky dear—we must keep our own 
counsel!” 

His voice held an authoritative ring. They walked on in 
silence. Already it was growing dusk, and the Pendre woods 
were becoming like black blots against the pallor of the hills. 
The sea was dimmed by mists. They could hear the sustained 
thunder of those breaking waves on the long line of shore. 

It was a relief to get back to the house, to take off their 
muddy boots and join their mother in the green drawing¬ 
room. Pamela was there, too, in her strange white and gold 
perfection that always made Vicky feel clumsy and ill-dressed. 
But, anyhow, she wasn’t afraid of her any more. There 
wasn’t the slightest chance of Eustace falling in love with 
her. He didn’t seem even to like her very much, and most 
people liked Pamela. 

But after their talk that afternoon, Vicky felt that her 
friendship with her brother had entered upon a new phase. 
It had become permanent, and she felt that whatever hap¬ 
pened in the future, they could never be less to each other. 
They had shared something together. There was something 
close and intimate between them. 

Lady Pendre looked so calm and tranquil and undisturbed, 
so even normal, that Eustace almost felt as if he had allowed 
Vicky’s wild and always rather morbid imagination to affect 
him unreasonably; he was even a trifle ashamed that he had 
revealed anything of his own uneasiness to his sister. The 
shadow seemed momentarily to have lifted a little ... 

Only, what had his mother meant—what could she have 


THE SHADOW 


89 


meant in the name of all that was sane—when she said that 
she had killed Philip? There w r as no explaining away that 
impetuous utterance, charged with a profound significance he 
could not hope to penetrate. It had been dragged from her 
in a moment of dire calamity when the long silence of years 
had been broken, and it seemed to him that this speech alone 
confirmed and substantiated all their fears. . . . 


CHAPTER VI 


Forbidden Fruit 

1 

E USTACE was motoring homeward, driving himself in 
the little two-seater which was generally reserved for 
Vicky’s use. But to-day she had refused to accompany him, 
preferring to remain indoors as she had a slight cold. He 
had left her sitting over the schoolroom fire, reading a novel 
and eating chocolates. 

After a few days of bright, sunny, and spring-like weather, 
winter had returned. There had been a slight fall of snow, 
and the wind was as keen as a knife. 

Eustace had been over to St. David’s Bay, which was the 
nearest shopping town of any importance, offering a wider 
range to intending purchasers than Llyn. He had escaped 
directly after luncheon, fearing that his father might suggest 
Pamela’s accompanying him. He was not in the mood for 
conversation to-day; he preferred solitude. 

The snow had powdered lightly the hard frozen road, whose 
puddles were transformed to blue ice. Lightly powdered, too, 
were the meadows, stretching almost to the sea, although 
interruptions of green were here and there visible. Broad 
white streaks striped the red roofs of Llyn. The sea lay like 
a colorless lake, faintly blurred by mist on the horizon. The 
gulls flashed past like silver scimitars, in their restless, uneasy 
flight. 

Moth Hill was deeply covered in snow, and the sparse trees 
that grew in the cleft near the summit, stood up deeply brown 
in the white wilderness. The sky was pale and almost color¬ 
less, but growing a little grey with premature dusk. 

90 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 


91 


At the turn of the road just before reaching Llyn, Eustace 
came upon a small car, almost the counterpart of the one he 
was driving. It had come to a stop just short of a deep 
ditch on the right upon a steep slope, and he supposed that 
there had been a break-down of the machinery, since a slim 
form clad in a long brown leather coat was half-hidden be¬ 
neath it. Two feet were visible, covered with thick brown 
knitted stockings and boyish-looking shoes. 

Eustace pulled up, observing these details, and feeling quite 
uncertain as to whether that prone figure belonged to a boy 
or a girl. At a little distance he saw a tall woman pacing the 
frozen path, stamping her feet not with impatience, but in an 
obvious endeavor to keep warm. Eustace quickly recognized 
her dark rather aquiline face, and it gave him the clue he 
required, revealing the identity of the person who was par¬ 
tially concealed from him. She was the woman who had 
accompanied Miss Tresham in her walk that day upon Moth 
Hill, not a week ago. His heart gave a quick throb. That 
prone boyish-looking form must assuredly belong to Miss 
Tresham herself. 

The elder woman had turned in her walk and was coming 
closer. Eustace’ eyes met hers, and he leapt down from his 
seat, took off his hat and advanced toward the little group. 
The motoring world has its own freemasonry, and, realizing 
this, he devoutly blessed the kindly fate that had brought 
him hither at an apparently critical juncture. 

“I say, can I be of any use ?” he asked, with the smile that 
had won him friends half the world over. It lit up his deep- 
set smouldering eyes, and gave a rare charm to his face. 

The long dark eyes that met his twinkled. The cold nip¬ 
ping air had turned those olive cheeks to a bluish grey. Miss 
Tresham’s companion held out a hand comfortably though 
not elegantly gloved in knitted wool. 

“Well, she doesn’t seem to be making much progress,” she 
said, with a smile. “She’s learned how to do running re¬ 
pairs, but one never knows how long they’ll take.” 

She went a step or two nearer to the car. 

“Nella,” she called, “would you like Mr. Wingrave fo help 


92 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

you? He’s offered to, and I expect he knows more about it 
than you do.” 

So she knew who he was, and hadn’t hesitated to pro¬ 
nounce his name. It saved him from all trouble of intro¬ 
ducing himself. He stood there watching, while the slender 
form wriggled itself free and assumed an upright position. 
The somewhat flushed face that now revealed itself under 
the brim of a plain brown leather hat struck Eustace even 
more forcibly than it had done on the occasion of their first 
encounter upon Moth Hill. Often since then he had tried 
to assure himself that she couldn’t really have been as pretty 
as all that, as perfect as she had seemed to him in that first 
elusive, tantalizing glimpse of her. It wasn’t possible. . . . 
But now as he looked upon that glowing face, those shining 
dark blue eyes, those parted smiling lips, the pale presentment 
of her seemed to vanish, or else perhaps it became subtly in¬ 
corporated with the living woman who was just greeting him 
in friendliest fashion. 

She held out her hand, slightly soiled from her recent at¬ 
tempt at performing running repairs. 

“How awfully good of you! I was so hoping someone 
might turn up soon. I’m Nella Tresham, as I suppose you 
know, and this is my friend, Mrs. Welby.” 

“I remember seeing you one day on Moth Hill when I was 
with my sister,” he said. “She told me who you were.” 

She smiled at him, and there was a delicious hint of roguish¬ 
ness in her face, that enchanted him. It was just as if she 
had said: “I suppose there’s no harm in our speaking, al¬ 
though your mother refuses to know us?” Just a hint of 
secret understanding, of youth calling to youth, sure of 
response. 

Aloud she only said: “I’ve been here about half an hour 
already, trying to get the old thing to move. Do you find 
that when anything happens it’s always something you never 
learnt to cope with? Poor Mrs. Welby must be perfectly 
frozen—although she’s getting used to my fiddling. Would 
you really mind seeing what’s the matter ? I confess that I’m 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 93 

utterly up a tree, and have been all this time, though I was 
too proud to own it!” 

Her merry laugh rang out; to Eustace it was full of de¬ 
licious, musical sounds. He took some tools from her and 
proceeded to examine the car. 

His head was in rather a whirl, but outwardly he looked 
perfectly composed. Oh, if he had prayed for such a chance 
as this of speaking to her it could hardly have been more ad¬ 
mirably contrived! They were here together upon this lonely 
frozen road with the spring dusk deepening about them, and 
the gulls wheeling above their heads like restless uneasy 
spirits uttering sharp cries of agony. Mrs. Welby simply 
didn’t count. She had resumed her steady tramp upon the 
hard path, filled with the determination to keep as warm as 
was possible under such inclement conditions. A woman 
Whose patience and good-humor were evidently beyond ques¬ 
tion. He felt that he loved her for marching so briskly away, 
especially when she vanished completely beyond the next bend. 
She looked round to cry out: “Call me when you’re ready,” 
before she turned the corner. Had Eustace been nearer he 
might have perceived a humorous gleam in those dark eyes. 

Thus for twenty minutes he was alone, quite alone, with 
Nella Tresham, although the conditions did not at first admit 
of anything but a rather one-sided conversation, carried on 
chiefly by the lady. 

It would not be fair to say that Eustace did deliberately 
prolong the operation of inducing the car to start, in order to 
secure a brief reprieve from the separation that loomed ahead 
of them. But at the same time he performed his task with a 
thoroughness that was at least conscientious, while Nella’s 
thrilling young voice fell agreeably upon his ears. She was a 
chatterbox, as Mrs. Welby had felt constrained to remind her 
from her earliest years, and Eustace was thankful to discover 
it for himself. He felt tongue-tied and slightly embarrassed 
(it was a wonder, considering all things, that she should be so 
charming to a Wingrave!) and while assuring himself that 
the adventure could have no possible sequel he felt convinced 
that nothing should prevent him from seeing her again when- 


94 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

ever he wished to do so. And this in defiance of all parental 
opposition. 

“You’ve only lately come back, haven’t you?” Nella’s clear 
voice was saying. “You mustn’t be surprised, but we hear all 
about the doings at the Park in this forlorn hole! We almost 
knew the exact hour when you were due to arrive. Uneasy 
is the light that beats upon a throne!—by the way, that 
doesn’t sound right, but you know what I mean. I’d like 
you awfully to come over to Glen Cottage one day and see 
my mother. And bring that ripping little sister of yours with 
the tragic eyes. I have often wanted to stop and ask her why 
she was so frightfully melancholy and miserable. We always 
eye each other when we meet—I know she’s as anxious to 
speak to me as I am to speak to her. Only Mrs. Welby, who 
by the way is much more prudent and discreet than either 
Mother or myself, says, Better not! Your sister mightn’t like 
it—your mother could know us if she wanted to . . . mustn’t 
go against parents—you know the kind of thing people like 
Mrs. Welby have to say! But, Mr. Wingrave, you don’t 
mind my asking you, do you? What is the matter with us?” 

And suddenly her voice changed from grave to gay, and he 
knew from the sound of it that she was desperately in earnest, 
was waiting anxiously, almost nervously, for his answer. 

Eustace got clear of the car and stood up facing her. He 
could not let this attack pass without reply. With a flushed 
face he said: “I can really offer no solution of the mystery. 
I’ve been back such a short time and I haven’t discussed the 
matter. But Vicky would tell you that the Powers are both 
capricious and obdurate. We humor them as far as we can. 
Shall we leave it at that ?” 

Despite his mocking words, uttered with a smile, she dis¬ 
cerned a touch of bitterness, a hint of revolt and resentment. 
There was a grim look about his dark eyes. 

Nella made a slight, expressive grimace. 

“Most people have been terribly kind to us since we came 
to live here. Mother and Mrs. Dyrham at Moth Hill Manor 
are old school friends—it was on her account that we took the 
cottage—she wrote and told us it was going. And Mr. 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 


95 


Soames is a very decent landlord, and I don’t think he finds 
us such very bad tenants. I’m only telling you all this to 
show you that there really isn’t anything against us except 
that we’re rather hard up. I’m sure, too, that Vicky—is 
that really her name?—it sounds quite regal—Vicky and I 
would get on like a house on fire. I can always tell at once 
if I’m going to like people or not, can’t you ? And ^we’re 
hardly more than a mile apart—we could meet often. I 
simply haven’t anyone of my own age. Couldn’t you manage 
it somehow, Mr. Wingrave?” 

She stood there, slim, appealing, very charming in her 
earnestness. 

“I only wish I could,” said Eustace. “For my own sake 
sake as well as for Vicky’s,” he added, daringly. 

“Why, that’s quite a nice compliment!” laughed Miss 
Tresham. 

“It’s a perfectly sincere one, anyhow.” 

“You might tell your Powers, then, that you’d mef me and 
would like to continue the acquaintance. Are they so very 
formidable ?” 

“Very. About some things.” 

“And I’m one of the things?” Again he discerned that 
note of almost tremulous anxiety and appeal. 

“Well, I suppose you must be, though I can’t imagine why.” 
He stood there now, facing her, his hands in his pockets. He 
wished that she hadn’t asked him that question, but since she 
had, rather with the air of one who wanted at any rate to 
know the worst, he felt compelled to give a perfectly frank 
reply. “I only wish you weren’t,” he added, for he noticed 
that she had winced slightly just as if she had been hurt. 

“I think I’m afraid of your—Powers,” she admitted. 

“We speak of them in the plural,” said Eustace, “but we 
really only mean my father. My mother always seems to do 
exactly what he wishes and she never lets on whether she 
approves or not. I believe I’m telling you something now 
about our family life, but I feel you ought to know just how 
we stand.” 


96 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

“Do you know what I think it is?” she pursued, coming a 
step nearer. 

Eustace lowered his eyes before what seemed to him a 
blinding glance. He felt himself yielding to the absolute en¬ 
chantment of her; it was like a magic spell, irresistible, and 
diminishing even one’s wish to resist. 

“I really can’t imagine.” 

“I think it must be on our account of our religion,” she 
said; “we’re Catholics, you know, Mother and I. And Catho¬ 
lics do still sometimes have to put up with that kind of thing. 
Snubs, you know. Pin-pricks. I know it’s ridiculous to 
mind, but they do hurt sometimes. We came here because 
we wanted a cheap quiet place to live in, not too far from a 
church. And there’s one at Llyn. Of course it’s very dull 
down here, but the air suits Mother—that’s one blessing. I 
never realized quite how dull it would be in the country with¬ 
out any near neighbors of one’s own age. But Mrs. Dyrham 
gave me this two-seater and had me taught to drive it, so it 
isn’t quite so bad now.” 

He hardly heard what she was saying. His mind was so 
full of those words: “We’re Catholics, you know, Mother 
and I. . . .” 

His eyes as they met hers were full of troubled, puzzled 
inquiry. 

“Catholics!” he repeated, almost as if the word held a 
strange sound. “But I knew you were. Vicky told me. At 
least she said she thought so.” 

They had never known any Catholics; until he joined the 
army he had never met a single one. Was it part of his 
father’s narrow discipline to keep his children from all con¬ 
tact with other forms of religion? Almost involuntarily he 
put his hand up to his throat and felt for the little silver 
crucifix that was concealed there beneath his shirt. The 
crucifix that his mother had once so eagerly, so impulsively 
kissed. That little action seemed to remove her utterly from 
the charge of intolerance and bigotry. It wasn’t her doing, 
and it comforted him now to assure himself of this fact 

“Are they so very intolerant?” Nella asked. 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 


97 


“I don’t think my mother is. I’m sure, in fact, she isn’t. 
About my father it's more difficult to say. We’ve never dis¬ 
cussed the subject.” 

"‘But I mean—are they very keen about the Church of 
England ?” 

He shook his head. 

“I shouldn’t say so. My father goes to church on Sundays, 
and he makes a point of our going with him when we’re at 
home.” 

“But if it isn’t our religion, what can it be?” she asked. 
“Lady Pendre has never set eyes on us, as far as I know. 
Certainly never on Mother, because she hardly ever goes be¬ 
yond the garden. And even if she had seen her she couldn’t 
help loving her. She’s so beautiful and dear.” Her face 
was all softened with a very genuine enthusiasm. “She has 
never been a Power,” she went on; “she couldn’t be one if 
she tried. She’s more like my sister—we tell each other 
everything—she’ll be just as amused as I am at our meeting 
like this!” 

2 

Although the car had long since been set to rights, and 
somewhere beyond the curve in the road Mrs. Welby was still 
tramping up and down on the frozen path, the two made no 
effort to resume their respective journeys. They continued 
to stand there talking, face to face and quite close to each 
other, aware perhaps that this their first interview might 
prove to be their last, and that therefore it behooved them to 
make the most of those precious minutes. 

Nella indeed seemed to be perfectly oblivious of the passing 
of time; she couldn’t have said if she had been there an hour, 
two hours, or even three. She was becoming desperately in¬ 
terested in this young Wingrave who was making it quite 
easy for her to discuss possible solutions to the problem that 
was so teasing her. When she had seen him on Moth Hill, 
she had thought him small and rather plain; it was Vicky 
who had chiefly attracted her. She desperately wanted to 


98 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


comfort Vicky, who looked such a forlorn unhappy little 
creature! But now she seemed to be learning every moment 
how charming Eustace was. She didn’t think him plain any 
more—he had such wonderful eyes beneath that poet’s brow. 

Eustace himself, completely under the spell of her beauty, 
her girlish chatter, now gay, now serious, asked nothing better 
of the fates than a continuance of present benefits. He 
wanted to tell her that it simply couldn’t end here—they must 
meet often, often—in defiance of the Powers and their arbi¬ 
trary decisions. That he couldn’t let her go completely out 
of his life, like the swift passing of some wonderful vision.. 

But a dull sense of loyalty held him back, so that he never 
voiced one of those phrases. If he couldn’t do quite all his 
father expected of him, he would at least be careful to submit 
to his will in little things. Little things! . . . His mind 
caught at the words, dismissing them with mocking derision. 
And he learned then, unwillingly, reluctantly, but very surely, 
that Nella Treshham wasn’t a little thing. She was very 
important indeed, and she had already bound him so fast in 
the web of her own enchanting personality that he felt he 
could never again escape. 

A Catholic ? He thought suddenly and perhaps irrelevantly 
of the shadow that brooded over Pendre. A shadow in whose 
intangible darkness they all lived and moved, and from which 
it was beginning to seem they could never release themselves. 
And this girl belonged to a free and beautiful world that lay 
outside that shadow. A world perhaps where even shadows 
had their meaning and purpose. . . . 

But he felt the presence of a barrier between himself and 
Nella; it chilled him as he realized it. His face had grown 
wistful now, almost suffering. 

“Vicky thought it might be because you were Catholics,” 
he said, at last. “I’m in utter ignorance—absolutely in the 
dark. You must believe that, and that I’d alter things if I 
could.” 

“You couldn’t try?” she asked eagerly. 

“I’m afraid it would be no use, but I’ll do my best—I can 
promise you that at any rate. And Vicky wants to be friends 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 99 

with you she feels just as you do about it. You’d be awfully 
good for Vicky, you’d cheer her up. She’s inclined to be 
morbid and despondent ...” 

It was convenient to use Vicky as a peg for his own emo¬ 
tions and wishes. Emboldened, he stretched out his hand and 
took hers, holding it thus for a brief moment. In doing so he 
had either drawn her a little closer to him or she had moved 
nearer of her own accord. He felt that she trembled. It was 
very cold, and the hand that rested in his felt like a little 
lump of ice. He dropped it, but his eyes were fixed upon 
her face. And it seemed to him in that moment that their 
two souls had made a pitiful desperate endeavor to approach 
each other, as souls sometimes will in an effort to mitigate 
their forlorn and irremediable and inescapable loneliness. 

They looked into each other’s eyes without speaking, and 
Eustace felt he had stepped out of the shadow and was 
standing face to face with Nella in a blinding searching 
light. . . . 

The moment passed. Now they were only two young and 
muddy and rather disheveled figures standing at the side of a 
frozen road along which a fierce polar wind had begun to 
sweep with breath of ice. Mrs. Welby’s firm regular foot¬ 
steps could be heard approaching, beating rhythmically upon 
that iron pathway. In the absence of all other sounds they 
seemed almost like the strokes of a hammer. They belonged 
to fate, to destiny. 

“Finished your job, Mr. Wingrave?” she said, as she came 
up to them. Her smile was pleasant and friendly. But even 
she felt that she had overstepped the limits of prudence in 
leaving them together for so long. 

“Oh, it was done ages ago,” remarked Nella, cheerfully. 
“We’ve been talking.” 

When Eustace Wingrave had held her hand in his for an 
appreciable moment, his touch had reassured her as to the 
future. They were “friends,” and surely it wouldn’t be easy 
for him to go away and never see her again. 

As for Eustace, he thought that he should always be able 
to visualize her with the white frozen wintry sky above her, 


100 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


the powdered green and white fields stretching to right and 
left, the brown hedges sheltering them, the gulls wheeling in 
the air high over their heads, and in the distance the deep, 
sustained and rhythmic surging of the sea. 

Mrs. Welby glanced from one to the other. If she had 
been struck with their lack of consideration for herself, she 
had far too much sympathy with young people to feel at all 
resentful about it. Besides, there was something about this 
young Wingrave that attracted her. His pleasant frank 
manner held a charm to which she could not be indifferent. 
But Eustace Wingrave . . . and Nella! She put the thought 
from her as absurd and even a little foolish. Catholic girls, 
especially if penniless, as indeed they generally were, couldn’t 
expect to marry the eldest or only sons of rich people belong¬ 
ing to another faith. Family tradition on both sides pre¬ 
cluded the possibility of such an alliance. And she had heard 
the usual gossip—that Lord Pendre, a stern harsh father, was 
inclined to be especially hard on his only surviving son. 

“Well, then I think we ought to be going/’ she said, in her 
cheerful good-tempered way that seemed to set their feet once 
more on the good solid earth, far removed from fantastic, 
romantic happenings. “But perhaps we shall see you some¬ 
times?” She turned to Eustace, with a. smile. 

“Oh, I hope so—I hope we shall mee£ often—” He 
stumbled over the words, vaguely comforted by her implicit 
support. She was evidently a very easy-going duenna. 

“You’ll nearly always find us in about tea-time,” she further 
informed him. 

He flushed a little. “Thanks very much. I’ll try to 
look in.” 

Conflicting loyalties again agitated him, at the same time 
he wasn’t going to close a door that had so suddenly, so won¬ 
derfully, so unexpectedly opened to him, giving him a glimpse 
of a paradise that was beyond all his imagining. 

And always there was the hope that he might persuade his 
mother to relent. The episode couldn’t possibly begin and end 
with this one fortuitous meeting. There must surely be a 
sequel. A sequel especially to that moment when they had 


FORBIDDN FRUIT 


101 


stood there with their hands nsped, their eyes meeting and 
saying eloquently all those tings to which their lips must 
as yet perforce remain dumb. 

Mrs. Welby moved toward tfc car and took her seat therein. 
Nella Tresham followed, griping the wheel. Eustace shook 
hands with both of them, an< s they drove away he raised 
his hat and shouted: “Good r e!” They were soon out of 
sight, disappearing round the end, traveling swiftly up the 
long road that climbed Mot! Hill. Nella just waved her 
hand before she vanished. . . 

He got into his car and drov rapidly along the lower road, 
within sight and sound of thesea, that led to Pendre. He 
passed through the cheerful lodern little streets of Llyn, 
with its shops, its cinema hall ts tea-rooms and restaurants. 
Now he could see the brown md leafless woods of Pendre 
making a dark blot aga: t the ky. They were only lightly 
powdered with snow, at this di.ance it looked like the fragile 
whiteness of fruit-blossom. 

Eustace was in a subdued, ; oer mood. The future looked 
unusually difficult, now that theld the added problem of 
Nella. But he remembered v r h satisfaction Mrs. Welby’s 
kindly commonplace words: 'ou’ll nearly always find us 
in about tea-time.” It constitutd an invitation, showing him 
at least that if he did present iinself he would be welcome. 

He must ask his mother, rrhaps she would be able to 
throw some light on his father extraordinary objection to 
these charming people. And in ny case he couldn’t see him¬ 
self not going to Glen Cottage-not availing himself of that 
permission to see Nella again. 


3 

Eustace found his mother aloe in the library. It was a 
beautiful room— one of the mo: eautiful perhaps at Pendre. 
They had found it like that whc they bought the place, and 
they had not changed anything It was full of dark carved 
paneling, elaborate, ornate, an he bookcases were carved, 
too. The electric light, carefuy hidden, made a subdued 


102 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


radiance in the room. Flowers contributed almost the only 
note of color except for the gleam of gold from the books. 

“Have you had tea?” she asked. “You’ve been gone so 
long.” 

“No—I should like some, please.” 

He leaned back in a big chair. His dark head was outlined 
against the mellowed gold of an old Chinese screen. 

She gave him some tea. 

“Where’s Vicky?” he asked. 

“Still upstairs. Her cold’s heavy.” 

“And Dad?” 

“Playing golf at Llyn with Mr. Soames. He must have 
gone back to Moth Hill to tea, or he’d have been in by now.” 

She glanced at him as she spoke. He was looking singu¬ 
larly alive this evening; his eyes were very brilliant under 
their penthouse brows. His mouth looked ready to break into 
a smile; it was curving a little downward at the corners just 
as it did when he was going to laugh. 

She felt vaguely uneasy about him. He was such a stranger 
to her . . . and was growing so dear. His presence reacted 
upon her in an indescribable way, and she found by close 
self-examination that her love was gradually becoming con¬ 
centrated upon him, her only surviving son. It was strange 
to realize that though, Philip had been the darling of her heart, 
the favorite par excellence of all her children, the one to 
whom she had given a love far surpassing that which she 
had been able to offer to the others, he had never been so 
cfose to her as Eustace had seemed since his return. Perhaps 
that old absorbing love had blinded her in some sense to the 
less showy and brilliant but very profound qualities possessed 
by this younger son. Philip’s death, which had torn her heart 
in two, had yet enabled her to see Eustace more clearly. Some¬ 
thing of her love, so cruelly wounded, had stirred to new 
life and transferred itself almost unconsciously to him. 

Eustace was dearer to her than he had ever been. She 
understood him better. She saw points of resemblance be¬ 
tween his mentality and her own. Her maternal feelings 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 103 

asserted themselves almost fiercely, springing up like a pure 
passionate flame. 

And she wanted ardently to help him in that spiritual quest. 
How could she stand by, indifferent, supine, while he 
struggled blindly? Oh, if she could only designate by one 
tiny gesture the path that would lead him to the sure solution 
of his problem! What if in blindness and ignorance that 
were no fault of his, he should miss it altogether—should pass 
it by unmindful? . . . 

She wanted to make up to him for those years in which 
Philip had been her first thought. Had he ever felt the need 
of her love, knowing that it was all poured out lavishly upon 
his brother? Perhaps it was too late now to redeem those 
years. Perhaps he didn’t want to be any nearer to her, or to 
inherit anything that had been Philip’s. But, then, she told 
herself he mustn’t hold aloof; he must play his part in the 
changed order of things, and learn to give her what she had 
never hitherto asked of him. 

Her heart went out rather wistfully to him then, as he sat 
there, so unconscious of all that was passing in her mind. 
Indeed his own thoughts were so desperately concentrated 
upon another woman that perhaps nothing was further from 
them than the mother who sat there waiting for him to speak. 
She was aware then of his unconsciousness, and the knowl¬ 
edge made her react quickly; she had a sickening misgiving 
that she had come too late, that her efforts and overtures 
would prove in vain. 

He was the most reserved and reticent of all her four chil¬ 
dren. Even as a little boy he had given no clue as to what 
was passing in his mind. She saw him now, difficult, com¬ 
plex, removed from her, too, by the urgency of his new 
spiritual quest. 

“Wasn’t it very cold?” she asked. 

“Yes . . . no . . . the snow’s deep in places. But I was 
held up for more than half an hour. I met Miss Tresham 
and her friend, Mrs. Welby. Their car had broken down. I 
had to help them.” 


104 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

He made the confession simply, but his eyes never lost their 
shining look. 

“Miss Tresham!” she repeated, astonished. Then in a more 
normal frigid tone: “How awkward for you, Eustie. You 
know we haven’t called. Your father didn’t wish it.” 

“Yes, so Vicky told me. But why on earth should he want 
to cold-shoulder them? Strangers to the place—and badly 
off. What’s the matter with them? Is there anything 
wrong? Or is it just one of Dad’s caprices?” 

He pelted forth the questions with a new roughness of 
manner, abrupt and rather defiant. 

“There isn’t anything wrong—you mustn’t think that,” she 
assured him eagerly. “Mrs. Dyrham’s known them a long 
time; she says they are charming, and that the mother and 
daughter are extremely devoted to each other. But I can’t 
call on every new person that comes to the place. And I was 
in mourning for Phip when they first came—I wasn’t going 
anywhere.” 

She was evading the issue. But Eustace refused to be put 
off; for him this was a serious matter, and one that must be 
dealt with—if dealt with at all—fundamentally. 

“Is it because they’re Catholics?” he asked sternly. “I 
know it sounds ridiculous to ask such a question in these days, 
but I simply can’t think of any other reason.” 

“That may, of course, have had something to do with your 
father’s wish that I shouldn’t call.” 

“I couldn’t have believed it possible! What on earth can 
Dad have against the Catholic religion?” 

His stormy, burning eyes gazed remorselessly upon her, as 
if demanding an adequate explanation. His white angry face 
had lost its habitual expression of scornful calm. 

“He can’t possibly be in love with this girl—he’s only seen 
her once—” thought Lady Pendre. “I’ve heard she’s pretty. 
What can she have said to him?” 

That the subject should evidently have been discussed by 
them, openly and without reserve, displeased her a little. It 
was so unlike Eustace to criticize his home-happenings to 
strangers. But of course it must have been entirely Miss 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 


105 


Tresham’s fault that he had done so. She must have availed 
herself of this unique opportunity to question him as to the 
reason for his parents’ refusal to know herself or her mother. 

“She’s met with that kind of thing before—but somehow 
she didn’t expect it from us!” he continued angrily. 

She retained her calm, although his look and words dis¬ 
turbed her. Aloud she only said: 

“I really think if you wish to know any more you must ask 
your father. He may tell you his reasons. But he won’t like 
to think you have talked it over with Miss Tresham.” Her 
voice held a faint reproof, but all thq time she was speaking 
she knew that she was deliberately increasing the distance 
between them. Only a few minutes ago she had believed that 
she would have given Eustace anything and everything that 
was, humanly speaking, possible. Why was it that he had 
perversely chosen just the one thing she couldn’t give him? 

“I’ve always liked the Catholics I’ve met,” he went on. 
“They have a standard—it’s a pretty high one—and when 
they don’t live up to it they know exactly where they’ve failed. 
It’s all cut and dried.” 

His newly-aroused interest in religion created its own bar¬ 
rier. If he would only understand that this was the one plane 
where they must never even try to meet! . . . 

She knew he would never ask his father for any explana¬ 
tion; it had been quite safe to suggest this course to him. 
Her two younger children feared their father, and they had 
little love for him. Even now the ancient fear had left a 
kind of constraint in Eustace’ case; he never questioned any 
of Lord Pendre's arbitrary decisions to his face, but writhed 
beneath them in rebellious silence. When he and Vicky had 
been young they had spent their time in a more or less suc¬ 
cessful endeavor to avoid his notice. There was that fierce 
and violent temper to be reckoned with. But in private they 
criticized him freely, and cherished a strong contempt for his 
lack of self-control, his wild undisciplined fiery nature. They 
regarded his ebullitions of anger as “bad form,” and were 
privately a little ashamed of them. And in response Eustace 


106 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


had schooled himself to offer a cold, controlled, slightly caustic 
attitude, not unmixed with scorn. 

But with their mother things were very different. No lack 
of control there—that icy imperturbable calm of hers encased 
her like an invulnerable armor. It made her a beautiful 
enigma to her children. But she was intensely loyal to her 
husband. She never seemed to question his decisions and 
commands. They had often wondered at her swift effortless 
submission. Perhaps she felt that she owed him too much 
in the shape of material things. Whatever his faults to his 
children might be, he was a devoted generous husband; he 
adored his wife with a possessive, jealous worship. Yet even 
to her his will seemed to be law. Whether she submitted will¬ 
ingly because her judgment and sympathy were at one with 
his own, her children could hazard no guess. It might be that 
her acquiescence was the natural reaction of the weaker 
nature in contact with the stronger and more imperious per¬ 
sonality. But in this as in all other things concerning her, 
the children could come to no definite conclusion; they were 
at every turn baffled and defeated. 

“I suppose there isn’t anything against my going to Glen 
Cottage ?” Eustace inquired at last. “Or would he be afraid 
of my being contaminated?” 

She knew now by his persistence that his desire to know 
the Treshams, to be on friendly terms with them, was no pass¬ 
ing whim. He was serious and obstinate. 

“I really think you’d better not follow up the acquaintance, 
unless it’s so very important,” she answered. “It would be 
putting us into rather an equivocal position.” 

She seemed to associate herself implicitly yet definitely with 
Lord Pendre’s decision in the matter. But her hands moved 
nervously. And again she was aware of something accusing, 
almost condemnatory, in that dark straight gaze of Eustace. 

“I’m afraid that I can’t promise not to go,” he said, after a 
slight pause during which the conflict of loyalties made itself 
felt more sharply and painfully than ever in his heart. It 
seemed to him that he must perforce distress one or other of 
these women. He must choose. And the choice wasn’t easy; 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 10 7 

it was highly complex. When he looked at his mother it even 
seemed to hold a peculiar bitterness. 

Of course she was wholly wrong to yield thus indolently to 
his father’s caprice about a matter wherein no principle could 
possibly be involved. But he could not make her see this. 
She had the habit of submission, and there was nothing in the 
least derogatory about her attitude, she seemed always to 
acquiesce rather than to yield. She wasn’t simply a door-mat 
woman, like James Lee’s Wife. Perhaps she did indeed love 
this harsh hard man whom so few people loved. Perhaps 
she owed him more than they knew. Perhaps there existed 
between them a fundamental sympathy which obviated any 
clash of wills. But the more Eustace considered her attitude 
toward his father, the more he drew back baffled. 

“I liked Miss Tresham,” he admitted. “And that nice 
woman who goes about with her—Mrs. Welby.” 

Lady Pendre rose to her feet. Mechanically Eustace fol¬ 
lowed her example. 

“Eustace . . .” 

Something in her tone, something unusually emotional, 
startled him. 

“Yes, Mother?” 

“For my sake, dear.’’ Her lips could scarcely frame the 
words. “I don’t often ask anything of you, do I ? But I do 
ask this, darling—for every reason in the world!” 

Her eyes seemed to implore him not to invite her to specify 
those reasons. She was not prepared to state them explicitly. 
She was only begging him to accept her request blindly. 

4 

This time the silence was longer. Eustace felt the presence 
of something at once sinister and intangible as he had never 
before felt it. With its deep mysterious webs of darkness it 
seemed to blot out his mother’s figure, her beautiful distressed 
imploring face. And then the consciousness of it stung him 
into speech. He had the old longing to bring it out into the 


108 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


light of day and fight it, this lurking secret enemy that ever 
eluded him. . . . 

“It’s the shadow!” he exclaimed, with a sense of struggling 
against something at once unwholesome and evil, of being 
enmeshed too in an invisible web. 

Then he stopped abruptly, ashamed now of having revealed 
the reason of his emotional restlessness. Both he and his 
mother were far away now from the contemplation of Mrs. 
Tresham and her daughter. This thing scarcely touched 
them. Or if it did it was in some way unknown to him, 
although perhaps not unknown to her. 

“The shadow? . . she repeated. Beneath her surface 
bewilderment she was subconsciously aware of his meaning. 
He was making discoveries. He had come back to Pendre 
after that long eventful absence, with a fresh and penetrating 
vision, stimulated by contact with new worlds, and eager to 
sweep out dark corners as if with a powerful searchlight. 

Her heart sickened at the thought. The discovery that 
there was something hidden and secret at Pendre would only 
stimulate his eagerness to unravel the mystery. 

“What do you mean, Eustie darling?” There was a faint 
tremor in her voice. 

“The shadow that’s over us all—over this house!” he re¬ 
plied, with a kind of sullen violence. “We both feel it, you 
know—Vicky and I! And I believe that latterly Phip felt 
it too.” 

“Oh, what do you mean, Eustie? What sort of shadow? 
I don’t understand.” She looked piteously at him. 

But her words did not prevent him from seeing that her 
blindness, her lack of comprehension, were not authentic; they 
were wilful, deliberate, unconvincing. She knew . . . 

He stood with folded hands, his face as pale as her own. 

“Vicky thinks it’s because one of us must have offended 
God l” 

“Oh! . . .” 

The sound escaped her as if it had been wrung from some¬ 
one under torture. She shrank away from that accusing look 
in his deep burning eyes. His words, with all their horror, 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 109 

explicit and suggested, echoed tumultuously in her brain. He 
had the aspect, she thought, of a young prophet. 

“The question is which one of us has done it?" he con¬ 
tinued, gazing at her pitilessly, as if determined to win the 
truth from her. He was fighting the shadow. Either he must 
destroy it utterly or he must beat it back into the region of 
shadows so that it should no longer emerge to darken the very 
sunshine of Pendre. He wanted to come to grips with it— 
this nameless thing which he felt but could not see, and that 
was subtly poisoning the very air they breathed. 

Behind that relentless boyish arraignment Lady Pendre 
could discern an almost piteous appeal for the help that she 
alone could give. 

“Eustie—don’t talk like that—you shouldn’t encourage 
Vicky—she’s always been morbidly imaginative. Don’t listen 
to her—you have too much sense—you mustn’t let her frighten 
you." 

“I’m not frightened," he said with a touch of scorn. “But 
I want to find out exactly what it is. I want to face it—to 
fight it—to expiate, if I can, any wrong that’s been done!" 

Any wrong that’s been done. . . . 

He came a step nearer. 

“Can’t you tell me, Mother? Can’t you trust me?" 

His voice was very gentle now, almost persuasive; the 
anger had gone out of his eyes, leaving them dull and somber. 

She fought desperately against that growing desire to help 
him. But she thought: “If I told him I should lose his 
love.” That was why she could not even indicate the source 
and fount of that shadow. 

“Don’t, don’t let Vicky talk so wildly to you. It’s bad for 
her. Your father has always tried to correct that tendency 
to exaggeration in her." 

“It wasn’t Vicky. We both felt it. I was glad that she 
spoke of it to me. It was getting on her nerves." 

“Don’t encourage her." The words came faintly, almost 
as if the protracted scene were beginning to exhaust her. 

Eustace stepped up to her fearlessly and grasped her hands 
in his own. 


110 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“Won’t you tell me, Mother? Won’t you even say that 
we’re wrong?—that there isn’t any shadow?” 

She took her hands away with a quick impulsive movement. 
Then she moved slowly toward the door without speaking. 
She kept her eyes averted. Her face was very pale but per¬ 
fectly composed, it wore its usual expression of enigmatic 
calm. If she carried any sinister secret in her heart, her face 
showed no sign of it. 

She would neither affirm nor deny. She gave him no help; 
she wrapped herself in that chilly mantle of isolation and 
reticence. But it seemed to him that in going away like that, 
tacitly refusing to listen to his passionate petition, she had 
deliberately left him alone with the shadow. . . . 

5 

He went back to his old seat by the fire, bitterly conscious 
of defeat. He had unburdened his heart to his mother—he 
had shown her the fears that were tormenting it, had given 
her every opportunity of allaying them—and all to no pur¬ 
pose. His cruel but necessary frankness had only elicited 
from her that one half-strangled little cry of pain. Her 
silence had been to him terrible. The shadow was still there, 
it seemed to envelop him with its impenetrable darkness. 

“Why, Eustace, are you alone ? Where’s your mother ?” 

Eustace had been wholly unaware of the passing of time. 
He could not have said if one hour or two had elapsed since 
his mother had gone out of the room, leaving him alone. He 
had felt too stunned, too much absorbed by his own crowding 
thoughts, to notice. Now his father’s voice, harsh and 
irritable, broke in upon him like a rude interruption. 

He looked up, his young face curiously haggard. 

“I don’t know. She Went away.” 

He rose and went toward the door. He felt that he could 
not bear his father’s presence then. But the impatient auto¬ 
cratic voice arrested him before he reached the door. 

“What’s the matter? Has anything happened?” 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 111 

“No. Nothing, Dad. I came in rather late for tea—we 
had a talk—then she went away. . . 

He made his escape, mounting the stairs very rapidly to his 
own room. 

Lord Pendre looked at the retreating figure of his son. 
Surly, ill-conditioned cub! He wondered what was in the 
fellow’s mind. He had such a queer look about the eyes. 
Ten to one he’d been worrying his mother about some trivial 
thing. Giselda was far too indulgent with her children. 
They’d never had any trouble with the other two. But 
Eustace and Vicky! . . . He went to the bell and pressed it 
twice impatiently. 

“Bring some fresh tea,” he said to the footman who ap¬ 
peared and immediately vanished on receiving the order. 

When the tea came Lord Pendre drank two cups of it 
hastily, but he ate nothing. His thoughts were full of 
Eustace. Why on earth did he avoid him like this, going out 
of the room almost as soon as he himself came into it? 
Barbara had warned him that Eustace had some queer Bolshe¬ 
vist notions in his head—well, he’d soon have to get rid of 
them, then! There was no money in that kind of thing, and 
if Eustace wanted money he must work for it, and work 
hard, too, although he was a rich man’s only son. 

Having finished his tea, he went upstairs in search of his 
wife. It was so unlike her not to wait downstairs in the 
library or green drawing-room until his return, especially 
when she knew that he must have had a long and tiring after¬ 
noon on the links with Soames. 

His big squarish face was slightly reddened from contact 
with that icy wind which seemed to have blown across leagues 
of snow. His heavy eyelids were reddened, too. But he 
looked immensely strong and powerful, and capable of af¬ 
fronting the severest weather. Yet he was obliged to 
acknowledge that the afternoon had been far from pleasant. 
There had been a good deal of snow on the links; he had lost 
several balls, and he had even suggested to Soames that they 
should relinquish their game. But Soames had seemed oddly 
set on it, and he was conscious of a wish to please him or at 


112 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


least not to offend him unnecessarily. Judging from the re¬ 
sults, too, he was able to look back upon the apparently in¬ 
auspicious expedition with feelings of satisfaction. Their 
return journey, for instance, in Soames’ luxurious closed car, 
had compensated for a good deal. Certain things had been 
said during that drive back to Pendre through the chilly win¬ 
try twilight, that had been excessively agreeable to his ears. 

Naturally he wished to communicate something of all this 
to his wife, and her unusual absence from the library that 
evening had annoyed him for more reasons than one. In 
particular, he had wished to tell her about that important, 
gratifying conversation he had had with Soames. 

Apart from this, there had been something in Eustace’ 
haggard troubled aspect that had aroused both anger and mis¬ 
givings within him. He always suspected his two younger 
children of that obscure offense he was wont to define as 
“worrying their mother.” 

Eustace had looked distinctly upset. He had positively 
fled from the room as if he couldn’t bear to be questioned. 

Lord Pendre went up to his wife’s study, which was next 
to her bedroom, on the first floor. It was a long and rather 
narrow room, looking across the Pendre woods to the blue 
line of the Irish Sea beyond. She had chosen it, when they 
first came to Pendre, on account of its beautiful view. In 
material things her husband never refused her anything. He 
was lavishly generous toward her. And generosity was not 
perhaps one of his chief characteristics. 

When he came in, she looked up quickly and saw that his 
dark swart face was slightly perturbed. The forehead beneath 
the thick greying hair was contracted in a deep frown. 

Lady Pendre was lying on a couch near the fire. Close by 
these was a small polished table, on which stood an electric 
lamp with rose-colored shade, and some books. She held a 
book in her hand, too, but she was not reading. There was 
something, indeed, in her prone indolent attitude that sug¬ 
gested exhaustion. 

“Giselda!” he said. 

She moved her head slightly so that the rosy light fell upon 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 113 

her face, imbuing it with a certain fictitious warmth and 
glow. 

“Yes, Hugo?” 

“What is the matter ? What are you doing up here ?” 

“I was tired.” 

He was standing over her, and she saw the steely glint in 
his ruthless black eyes. He wasn’t satisfied with her simple 
explanation. Perhaps he scented disturbance of some kind. 
He meant to get at the truth. Still, there were certain things 
she didn’t mean to tell him. She was determined, for instance, 
not to mention what Eustace had said about the shadow. . . . 

She saw for the first time a certain resemblance between 
Eustace and his father. They were both harsh, ruthless in 
their methods. The only difference was that she wasn’t 
bound to satisfy Eustace’ curiosity as she was that of his 
father; she could baffle him with evasive replies. He might 
chafe against them, but always, always, she could leave him 
in the dark and dissatisfied. 

But Lord Pendre had the faculty, known to none other, of 
eliciting speech from his wife. She did not baffle him, and 
indeed there was no need to do so. They had no dark secrets 
from each other. The shadow in which they dwelt held no 
mysterious terrors for them; they were aware of both its 
cause and its nature. . . . 

“Has Eustace been worrying you ?” he demanded. 

The line of his lips beneath the black hair of moustache 
and beard was a little cruel. 

“No ... no . . .” she answered. 

Perfectly frank with him about herself, she did on occasion 
assiduously hide from him such things concerning her chil¬ 
dren as she knew would probably annoy him. A protective, 
maternal instinct dictated these innocent subterfuges which, it 
must be admitted, rarely deceived him. . . . 

She struggled to her feet. The book dropped to the floor. 
Lord Pendre picked it up, replacing it on the table. 

“Don’t make a fuss please, Hugo. My head aches—I want 
to be alone. You mustn’t think that Eustace—” 

He pulled her toward him and then, gently leading her to 


114 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


the sofa, made her sit down by his side. He was no longer 
angry or impatient. He saw that something had distressed 
her; he must discover the reason. 

As she sat there with the light from lamp and fire making 
a kind of rosy radiance upon her face and dress, he was struck 
afresh by her beauty. So wonderful—so unspoiled. She 
seemed to him more lovely than she had ever been. She had 
that look of race which is in itself a thing of great beauty. 
Her aspect was still almost girlish, but there was an expres¬ 
sion in her face that was not girlish. The eyes told of experi¬ 
ence and suffering; the mouth, of reticence during that suf¬ 
fering. 

“I saw Eustace when I came in—he was sitting in the 
library, doing nothing, as usual. He looked upset—his face 
was quite queer. I suppose you’ve had a scene, and that as 
usual you’re trying to shield him! But, dear Giselda, you’d 
much better tell me about it. I can’t and won’t have the chil¬ 
dren worrying you.” 

He drew her a little closer; his hand held one of hers, 
firmly, possessively. 

“Oh, Hugo—why do you want to know? Sons say things 
to their mothers they wouldn’t dream of telling their fathers!” 

“Don’t try to put me off. I really intend to know. I’m not 
going to have him hanging about here idle much longer, and 
so I shall tell him!” 

His voice, though still suave, had an iron sound that did not 
escape her. She feared him when he spoke like that. And, 
after all, had he not a father’s right to know what his chil¬ 
dren thought and felt? 

“He’s restless here,” she said. “The sooner he goes away 
the better. He needs a holiday. And then he’s been used 
lately to more liberty than you choose to give him.” 

“Liberty! As if I ever interfered! What on earth do you 
mean?” 

She paused a moment and then said cautiously: 

“He met Miss Tresham to-day on his way home. Her car 
had broken down—he went to the rescue.” 

Relief was visible in his face. 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 115 

“I don’t see any harm in that, though of course it was a 
little awkward for him, in the circumstances.” 

“Well, it began about that. He wanted to know why we 
hadn’t called. I think he was taken with the girl.” She 
paused, and now she let her eyes rest upon his face with an 
unafraid, unembarrassed gaze. “If you don’t want him to 
know her, perhaps you’d better arrange for him to go away 
for a little. To travel and amuse himself for a few months, 
while he makes up his mind exactly what he wants to do. 
He’s had a very hard three years, you know.” 

Her low clear voice was not without its effect upon him. 

“I am certainly not going to allow him to visit the Tres- 
hams,” said Lord Pendre imperturbably. “You must make 
that quite clear to him. Vicky is very easily influenced, and 
Soaines tells me Miss Tresham has great charm.” 

“But, Hugo—you must see that to forbid anything of the 
kind is to curtail his liberty at once. And we can’t tell him, 
can we?—that a question of principle is involved.” Her voice 
was now faintly ironic. 

“While he’s under my roof he must jolly well do as I 
wish!” She got a hint now of rising temper. “I hope you 
didn’t encourage him?” 

“I simply told him that you didn’t want to know them—that 
you’d asked me not to call.” 

“I’d better speak to him myself,” said Lord Pendre. “He’d 
a queer sullen look on his face just now. I can’t think what’s 
the matter with the fellow. Phip was never like that. But 
I’m not going to stand any nonsense—I’ve still got the whip- 
hand of him!” His voice rose in angry, marked crescendo. 
“He’s penniless except for what I choose to give him!” 

“Yes, but other people don’t treat their sons like that. 
They give them liberty, yes, and money, relying on them to 
use both wisely and prudently. Eustace is twenty-two—you 
ought to trust him more.” 

“Trust him? When he’s just the sort of young fool to 
take up with people like the Treshams, or become a Bolshevist, 
or join some freak religion! Giselda, you know it as well 
as I do. We’ve always been anxious about Eustace, never 


116 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


knowing how he’d turn out. If he leaves here I shall only- 
give him just enough to live upon. He must work—it’ll teach 
him to value the job I can offer him. The job Phip ought to 
have had 1” 

“Do as you think best. I’m sure he doesn’t expect you to 
give him any money. Only let him go!” She spoke plead¬ 
ingly. “He isn’t happy here—he doesn’t want anything we 
can give him.” 

“What does the blighter want, then?” inquired Lord Pendre, 
witheringly. 

“Something I can’t give him.” She glanced at him now 
significantly. “Hugo—it isn’t any use—we can’t shirk the 
issue. All our trouble with our children can be traced back 
to the same source. I don’t believe we should have escaped it 
ultimately with Phip if he had lived. And they’re beginning 
to search for a clue. Neither Eustace nor Vicky is satisfied.” 

“In what way?” he asked. Something of her uneasiness 
communicated itself to him. “In what way?” he repeated. 

“They’re beginning—at least Eustie is—to think about 
religion. To feel the need of it.” 

“Well, then why don’t you tell him? He’s old enough 
to know. Old enough to see the wisdom—” 

But she was thinking of the little crucifix that lay hidden 
beneath her son’s shirt. 

“You don’t know him. If I were to tell him now, do you 
think he would approve ? He would condemn me.” 

Lord Pendre was silent. What had Eustace been saying 
to his mother to enable her to speak with such certainty ? 

“Do you mean to tell me that this girl’s been getting hold 
of him, Giselda?” he demanded. 

“Not yet. He’s only spoken to her once, as far as I know. 
But he is ripe for anything of the kind. He has it in his 
blood. That kind of spiritual heredity is very strong. And 
on my mother’s side it had been unbroken through so many 
generations. It’s almost bound to come out in one or other 
of them.” 

“Nonsense—they know nothing! I’ve taken jolly good care 


FORBIDDEN FRUIT 117 

of that. And you’ve kept your word, I know—I needn’t ask 
you.” 

“Yes, I have kept my word.” 

“It’s only a phase with Eustace—it’ll pass off. I believe a 
great many young men became very religious in the trenches.” 
“Well, if it happens you mustn’t blame me,” she said. 

He gave her a long close look. 

“You could give Eustace a hint about my feelings on the 
subject. He must remember his position now. It is the one 
thing I should never tolerate either in my house or in the 
firm. And about Miss Tresham—” 

“Yes, Hugo?” 

“If I find he’s been going there I’ll speak to him myself.” 


CHAPTER VII 


Arranging a Marriage 

1 

V\7HEN Lord Pendre went out of the room, he suddenly 
* * remembered that he had never mentioned to his wife 
the substance of the important conversation he had had that 
afternoon with Ernest Soames. They had both been thinking 
and speaking so much of Eustace that the subject of Vicky 
had taken a minor place. This was odd because his mind 
had been rather full of it when he first came in. 

However, there was no special hurry, since Ernest was 
leaving Moth Hill Park early on the following morning to 
spend a few days in London. Nothing could be settled until 
he came back, and he had promised to dine with them on the 
following Monday evening. Monday—there would be plenty 
of time to discuss the matter thoroughly before then. 

At dinner that night Lord Pendre took an unusual amount 
of notice of Vicky. He talked to her in a manner that was 
meant to be agreeable, but Vicky, who was ignorant of the 
reason, was secretly terrified. She had been somewhat in 
disgrace since the meeting with Martin and the departure of 
Miss Brigstocke. 

At one moment she had a wild hope that her father meant 
to relent and give his consent to her marriage with Martin. 
The thought cheered her. She began to talk and laugh, then 
answering her father fearlessly. Perhaps she owed this 
change of mood to some pleading of her mother’s. 

When she was vivacious she was very pretty, and Lord 
Pendre noted with approval how greatly she had improved 
in looks of late. Really she was hardly less lovely than 

118 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 


119 


Barbara, and she had more expression than her sister; her 
very immaturity held charm. To some men it might perhaps 
possess even more charm than Barbara’s somewhat sophis¬ 
ticated loveliness. 

He felt unusually pleased with his daughter. With Vicky 
married and Eustace away, its ancient peace would surely 
descend upon Pendre. Pamela would remain, of course. He 
wondered if Eustace had ever thought of Pamela. Anyhow 
he wasn’t going to have him running after strange gods. 

Miss Tresham indeed! He had seen the girl once or twice 
in the streets of Llyn. Very showy-looking and conspicuous 
with that bright hair and brilliant complexion, but not at all 
the kind of wife for Eustace. No family, and living in such 
a poor way with her mother and that elderly companion. He 
had heard they did all the housework themselves. Very 
praiseworthy, no doubt, and many well-born people had been 
driven to those extremes by the brutal changes brought about 
by the War, but that was not the kind of milieu whence Lord 
Pendre’s only son must take his wife. 

And, above all, Eustace must never marry a Catholic. 
That was the most flagrant of Miss Tresham’s disabilities. 
All the rest counted for nothing. Inquiring about religion, 
was he? Well, a few strenuous months spent in the work 
of the firm would soon drive that nonsense out of his head. 
He must speak to Eustace, and tell him that he couldn’t go 
on loafing at Pendre forever. He was getting demoralized. 

“Did you have good games, Fa?” Pamela asked suddenly. 

“Well, I didn’t exactly enjoy them—there was too much 
snow and a biting wind. Ernest was in very good form, 
though. He beat me each time.” 

“Mr. Soames hasn’t been near us lately,” said Pamela. 

“Well, he’s going to dine here on Monday,” said Lord 
Pendre, with a gleam of triumph in his black eyes. He 
glanced round the dinner table and let his gaze rest for a 
moment upon Vicky. Such an odd troublesome child. But 
this marriage would be the making of her. After that pre¬ 
cocious escapade with Martin Sedgwick, it was high time to 
settle her future. 


120 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Ernest Soames was one of the few men in the neighbor¬ 
hood with whom Lord Pendre was on friendly, even intimate 
terms. They had a number of tastes in common. They 
played golf together, discussed and deplored the growing dis¬ 
content among their tenants and the exorbitant demands of 
their laborers, sat side by side on the Bench, distributing fines 
and punishments among those luckless imprudent ones who 
fell into the hands of the law, and often lunched or dined at 
each other’s houses. Lately Ernest had come over to Pendre 
with greater frequency, at least until the time of Eustace’ 
return, when his visits abruptly ceased. Sometimes Lady 
Pendre believed that Pamela was the attraction. On the 
whole, she considered that his chances of success were good. 
Pamela would be settled close to Pendre for the rest of her 
life; the two estates adjoined; the owners were on friendly 
terms. Ernest was a good sort, a noted sportsman and very 
keen about games; he was over forty years old and quite 
well off. 

Whether Lord Pendre suspected that his wife would not 
see eye to eye with him in the matter, it would have been 
difficult to say, but for some reason or other he hesitated to 
approach her on the subject. Had she been in the library 
that evening on his return, there is no doubt he would have 
brought out his great news without delay. But the more he 
delayed, the harder it was for him to begin. She was bound 
to make some kind of objection on the score of Vicky’s youth. 
But if Vicky was old enough to carry on a clandestine flirta¬ 
tion with young Sedgwick, she was old enough to be mar¬ 
ried. That was the way he looked at it. Vicky needed a 
husband, and Ernest Soames was in his opinion the very 
man for her. 

When this business was put through, Lord Pendre felt that 
he could concentrate his thoughts upon Eustace’ future. As 
for this ridiculous wish of his to know the Treshams, that 
must be tabooed. Nipped in the bud. For more than twenty- 
six years Lord Pendre had closed his doors to Catholics and 
to any mention of the Catholic Church. He had his own 
excellent reasons for this, and if Eustace had possessed 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 


121 


Philip’s disposition he would not have hesitated to divulge 
them to him. But with Eustace, you never quite knew where 
you were, nor what perverse attitude he might adopt. Per¬ 
versity was the key-note of his character. Eustace was so 
far not aware that he was treading on highly dangerous 
ground, and it was unfortunately impossible to indicate the 
precise danger to him. He would simply have to accept his 
father’s decision in the matter, and if he regarded it as ca¬ 
pricious or arbitrary, that couldn’t be helped. Lord Pendre 
smiled behind his beard,—he was still master in his own 
house, thank Heaven! He had never abrogated authority for 
the sake of peace, like so many foolish, indulgent, latter-day 
parents, who believed that because their sons had fought and 
in many instances bled for their country, they must be al¬ 
lowed to have their own way forever after. . . . 

2 

When Monday came, Lord Pendre perceived that he could 
not delay any longer; he must take his wife into his con¬ 
fidence. 

It was no easy matter, and indeed he had seen but little of 
her during the last few days. He had been unusually busy 
also, and had had to spend a night in Chester, seeing to the 
sale of some property. 

But on the Monday afternoon he found her having tea 
alone. It seemed to him quite providential, especially when 
he learned that Eustace and Vicky and Pamela had all mo¬ 
tored over to St. David's Bay for the afternoon, intending to 
go to the “pictures” and have tea there. 

But even with this prospect of an uninterrupted interview 
with his wife, he could not quite bring himself to begin. 

“You haven’t forgotten that Soames is dining here?” he 
said suddenly, putting down his tea-cup. 

“Oh, no—I haven’t forgotten. Did you tell him eight 
o’clock?” 

“Yes.” 

Another pause. Lady Pendre had finished her tea, and was 


122 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

now occupied with some knitting. The bright rose-colored 
silk she was knitting harmonized very perfectly with her pale 
grey dress. 

“That reminds me,” he said, “I’ve got something to tell you 
about Vicky.” 

She put down her work. “About Vicky?” 

There was a faint note of alarm in her voice, almost as if 
she had already begun to suspect. 

“Yes. Soames has spoken to me about her. I meant to 
tell you before, but I’ve never had an opportunity.” 

“What on earth can Mr. Soames have to say about her?” 

“She is eighteen—she is old enough to think about mar¬ 
riage. In fact, we know she has been thinking of it. Bar¬ 
bara was engaged at that age. I am all for women marrying 
young. Soames will make her an excellent husband.” 

Lady Pendre listened, feeling that she must be dreaming 
But when she glanced up at her husband’s face, she saw 
nothing there but harsh determination. He always looked 
like that when he had a difficult piece of business to ac¬ 
complish. 

“You can’t be serious, Hugo,” she said indignantly. “Ernest 
and Vicky—why, it’s impossible . . . she doesn’t even like 
him! Besides, she is far too young—she isn’t even out.” 

“Barbara agrees with me that the sooner she marries the 
better. It can’t be too soon in my opinion, now she’s begun 
to run after young ineligible men like Sedgwick.” 

“She will never marry Mr. Soames,” returned his wife, 
with decision. The idea was so preposterous that she wasn’t 
even alarmed at the suggestion. “He is more than twenty 
years older than she is. He’s nearly as old as I am. It’s 
perfectly ridiculous for him to think of Vicky!” 

“His age doesn’t signify—he’ll be able to keep her in bet¬ 
ter order. He’s got a bit of a temper—I daresay he’ll make 
her afraid of him.” 

“You can’t make her marry a man she dislikes just because 
you think it would be a good thing for her!” 

“I don’t think she does dislike him. I’ve heard her call 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 123 

him an old sport, whatever that may mean. Will you speak 
to her about it or shall I?” 

“I am certainly not going to. You can tell her if you like 
—it won’t make the slightest difference. You’d much better 
let me talk to Mr. Soames!” 

“My dear, Ernest is very deeply attached to her. He is 
quite serious—he doesn’t want to wait beyond the summer. 
And I may tell you that the settlements he’s prepared to make 
are quite beyond her deserts.” 

“She won’t have anything to say to him, and it would be 
far kinder to tell him so!” 

“She’ll do what she’s told. I’m not going to have her meet¬ 
ing young men in the Pendre woods.” 

“But he wanted to marry Barbara five years ago. Why 
didn’t you insist upon that? It would have been far more 
suitable!” 

“She was already in love with Gerard, who had a great 
deal more to offer. But in Vicky’s case there’s no Hammond.” 

“I always dislike the idea of a man wanting to marry one 
sister because he couldn’t get the other.” 

Still, she was not greatly perturbed by the fantastic sugges¬ 
tion. Vicky was not a person who could be coerced into tak¬ 
ing a line of action diametrically opposed to her own wishes. 
Accustomed as she was to yield in the long run to her father’s 
iron will, she was yet unlikely to submit supinely to an en¬ 
gagement so little to her taste, especially when she was avow¬ 
edly in love with another man. 

Lady Pendre would have been thankful to see Vicky mar¬ 
ried to Martin. Grievously wounded in the War, he had 
spent many weeks of his long convalescence at Pendre, made 
welcome there because he had been Philip’s great friend. 
Vicky had done a great deal to help him during that tedious 
time of suffering and distress. She was only sixteen, but 
even then she had presented an odd admixture of childishness 
and maturity. She had devoted herself to him almost from 
the day of his arrival, and she was a charming little com¬ 
panion—Eustace’ influence had done that for her—thus, she 
had never tired of reading aloud to Martin, of playing chess 


124 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


or cards with him, and amusing him in all kinds of ways. A 
deep friendship sprang up between them, unobserved by Lord 
Pendre, who was very busy at the time and often away from 
home. But it was not till the day drew near for Martin’s de¬ 
parture that his love declared itself. Miss Brigstocke had 
witnessed in silence the gradual growth and development of 
the affair. But she had said nothing. Martin was suddenly 
banished. Gossip had reached Pamela’s ears—she passed it 
on to “Fa.” Vicky was in disgrace; she had appalling scenes 
with her father. But she continued to correspond with Martin 
until this, too, was discovered. Thereafter they had only had 
that one meeting in the woods, which had unfortunately 
stimulated Lord Pendre’s desire to get his daughter suitably 
settled in life. 

When he had decided upon a certain course of action, he 
was always alarmingly precipitate in the accomplishment of 
it. It was said that much of his success in business was due 
to this habit of carefully-weighed decision followed by prompt 
action. He introduced the same principles into his private 
domestic life. Cold and calculating in his wary approach, his 
decision once taken materialized with an almost ruthless ra¬ 
pidity, reminding one of the cruel relentlessness of a river in 
flood. 

Thus, from past experience Lady Pendre knew that to her 
husband this surprising scheme for promoting a marriage 
between Vicky and Soames was no new idea. It had probably 
been simmering in his brain for some time past, and the un¬ 
wisdom of delay had perhaps been brought home to him by 
the discovery of his daughter’s recent interview with 
Sedgwick. 

Once or twice lately he had come into collision with Vicky 
over the matter of Pamela’s continued presence in the house; 
he judged it therefore expedient to formulate decisive plans 
for her future. And aware that a tacit rebellion against him 
reigned in the hearts of his two younger children, he no doubt 
deemed that the moment for direct action had arrived. 

Why couldn’t his wife look at the matter sensibly? But all 
women, when it came to a question of marriage, were incura- 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 


125 


bly sentimental! She ought to have been thankful to seize 
this opportunity of banishing such a turbulent element as 
Vicky from the house. Pamela would, of course, remain and 
play the daughter’s part, which she did with such tact and 
grace. 

And then she was so decorative! She put Vicky a little in 
the shade, suggesting a contrast between the highly-finished 
product and something that was still a little wild and raw 
and immature . . . 

3 

Lady Pendre had risen and had gone across the room to 
the writing-table. She felt that she could not bear her hus¬ 
band’s nearness any more. He always wanted her to see 
with his eyes, and if she failed to do this he was apt to get 
huffy and offended and to accuse her of not caring for him. 
His love for her was his one weak spot. And, knowing that 
weakness, he feared lest anything should touch it, coming be¬ 
tween them to its hurt. 

All these years he had been accustomed to lay down the law 
about the children, settling what they should do and what 
they should not do; and she had never remonstrated with him 
even when his decisions were on the side of harshness. But 
now, all of a sudden, he felt her tacit determination to pre¬ 
vent this marriage. She meant to oppose him. This attitude 
of hers was so novel that he did not quite know how to deal 
with it. And then only the other day she had actually invited 
him to grant Eustace an increase of liberty! . . . 

“We might give him an opportunity of speaking to her this 
evening after dinner,” he resumed. 

“Oh no—don’t do that—she ought to have some prepara¬ 
tion—” was her rather breathless answer. 

“But you said just now that you preferred not to tell her.” 

“Because I’d no idea you meant to be so precipitate. 
Couldn’t you wait a little ?” 

“No—I see no use in waiting. That’s never been my 
policy. Make up your mind to do a thing, and do it! Be¬ 
sides—things might happen.” 


126 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“What things ?” 

“We needn’t go into that. But Vicky is getting more and 
more difficult to manage, and then this unfortunate and un¬ 
reasonable dislike she has taken to Pamela is so very dis¬ 
turbing.” 

“Then you’d better get rid of Pamela!” 

“Get rid of Pamela?” 

“Yes. After all, Vicky’s our own daughter, and if we must 
choose between them, Pamela ought to be the one to go.” 

Her cheeks usually so pale were flushed. There was a rare 
hint of temper in her voice. 

He looked at her in astonishment. 

“I made the mistake of believing you were devoted to 
Pamela!” 

“Not to the extent of getting rid of Vicky because the two 
girls can’t hit it off,” she assured him. 

“I should be very sorry to see her driven out of the house 
because Vicky’s so inordinately rude to her. There’s no 
question as to which of the two I should prefer to remain.” 

“Is Pamela in favor of this marriage ?” she inquired 
ironically. 

“I haven’t discussed it with her.” 

She was almost relieved to find that the girl had had no 
hand in this matrimonial scheme. That slight disposition to 
intrigue that had sometimes been apparent in Pamela’s char¬ 
acter, had from time to time alarmed Lady Pendre. She was 
quite capable of trying to get rid of Vicky, who had uncon¬ 
sciously become her rival. There was little doubt that the 
thought of marrying Eustace had seemed to her a favorable 
solution of her own problem, though it was difficult to say 
whether she was still aiming at this. But she was very am¬ 
bitious, and there was no doubt that she had every reason to 
wish to consolidate the links that bound her to Pendre. This 
solution had also indubitably received favorable consideration 
from both Lord Pendre and Barbara. 

It might be that in ridding the house of Vicky’s stormy, 
turbulent little presence, he believed there would be a greater 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 


127 


probability of realizing these hopes. His next words seemed 
oddly enough to corroborate Lady Pendre’ conclusions upon 
this point. 

“It seems absurd/’ he remarked, “but I have an idea we 
shall find it much easier to bring Eustace to a more reason¬ 
able frame of mind when Vicky’s out of the way. She’s a 
much stronger character than he is—she encourages him— 
eggs him on. Left to himself, I have always thought we 
should find him perfectly amenable. I remember when they 
were naughty as children it was always Vicky’s fault, though 
she was so much the younger of the two. I hope this mar¬ 
riage will take place very soon—in the early autumn, per¬ 
haps. There’s nothing on earth to wait for, and Soames is 
very much opposed to a long engagement.” 

Lady Pendre was silent for a moment. Then she said 
coldly: 

“I can promise you there’ll be no engagement.” 

“Well, we shall see about that,” he answered dryly. 

He went out of the room, resolving to concentrate his mind 
upon this marriage of Vicky’s to the exclusion of all other 
domestic problems, for he seldom allowed himself to execute 
more than one important project at a time. Of course there 
must inevitably be an interview with Eustace—a sharp re¬ 
minder of his absolute dependence, and of the fact that if he 
wanted money he must work for it. No slacking. He hadn’t 
worked hard himself all his life and amassed wealth in order 
to keep his son in idleness. But there must be no scene 
to-night. Soames must find a calm, harmonious, united 
family, with Vicky at her undisturbed best—the girl knew how 
to be charming when she chose. And Pamela's presence 
would prevent it from being quite a family party. ♦ . . 

After her husband’s departure, Lady Pendre made a rapid 
resolution. She wasn’t going to have this offer of marriage 
flung, so to speak, at Vicky’s head without the slightest prep¬ 
aration. The girl must be warned. She went up to her room, 
rang for her maid, and a message was dispatched to Vicky 
without delay. 


128 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


4 

The summons was an unusual one, especially at that hour 
when her parents were generally sitting together in the li¬ 
brary, with perhaps Pamela to keep them company. Vicky 
was slightly perturbed by the message. She wondered idly 
what had happened, as she hurried downstairs to her mother’s 
room. 

As she came in she looked very young, almost a child, with 
her small sensitive face, her slight undeveloped figure. The 
fashion of wearing short hair and skirts bestowed upon girls 
of the present day a curiously child-like and immature aspect. 
Lady Pendre could not help mentally contrasting Vicky now, 
with what she herself had been at that age. She could re¬ 
member just what she had looked like, and even the very 
clothes she had worn on the day when Hugo Wingrave, after¬ 
ward the first Lord Pendre, had asked her to be his wife. 
And she knew, too, that she had been in every sense a woman, 
with a fairly comprehensive experience of life, its difficulties, 
its sorrows and anxieties. Indeed at that age she had never 
been free from anxiety about her own father. She had been 
at once his child, his nurse and his companion. She had 
petted and humored him, and tried to keep him in safe paths 
despite the natural tendency of his feet to stray into those 
perilous ones that offered more amusement, and thus she had 
sacrificed a great deal of her own youth to him. And not 
only her youth . . . she was still, in a sense, sacrificing her¬ 
self for him although he had been dead for more than twenty- 
five years. The selfishness of a highly selfish person is often 
felt long after he or she has left this world for another. And 
so it had been with Major Kelsey. 

When Lady Pendre looked at her daughter now, she could 
not help thinking of the dreadful, far-reaching consequences 
of her own father’s selfishness. And it made her more than 
ever determined that Vicky should not be sacrificed. 

“What is it, Mummie dear?” 

“Aren’t you feeling well, Vicky?” 

“Oh, I’m all right. Only, I can’t shake off this cold.” 


129 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 

“I hope it isn’t worse?” 

“No but it makes me feel so stupid. I thought of having 
my dinner upstairs—in bed. Just some bread and milk. Do 
you think Dad would make an unholy fuss if I did?” 

I think perhaps if you possibly can you’d better dine down¬ 
stairs. Of course if you’re really feeling ill, that makes a 
difference. But you haven’t forgotten, have you, that Ernest 
Soames is coming?” 

Oh, he won’t miss me. He enjoys talking to Pamela. 
How I wish he’d propose to her! Do you think it’s at all 
likely?” 

No, I m afraid I don’t. And I think he likes seeing you 
too. You’d better wear your white velvet frock—it’s warmer.” 

“Oh, I don’t think I want to come down. Mr. Soames is 
such an old bore, isn’t he? I’m sure I don’t want to talk to 
him. And you’ll have such a nice peaceful evening without 
me. Besides, he’s Dad’s friend. Eustie and I think him too 
old for words!” 

It did not seem a very propitious attitude, and Lady Pendre 
began to feel that even the very slight alarm she had 
experienced had been causeless. She felt an immense secret 
relief at the thought. She really wondered why Ernest should 
ever have seriously considered the question of marrying a 
very young girl like Vicky. Or perhaps it was the result of 
“suggestion” ? Her husband must have had the idea in his 
mind for some time past. 

“I think I’d better tell you, dear, that Mr. Soames is really 
coming on purpose to see you.” 

“To see me?” Vicky echoed incredulously. “What on earth 
for? Perhaps he’s heard that 'Spot’ killed one of his pheas¬ 
ants last week? Eustie and I were trespassing, but I had 
‘Spot’ on the leash, only he got away. I wonder, though, who 
can have told him?” 

Lady Pendre suppressed a smile. 

“You must have a guilty conscience,” she observed, “but 
whether Mr. Soames has heard about it or not, I can’t tell 
you. It isn’t at all for that reason he wishes to see you.” 

“Are you sure, Mummie? Because if he’s heard anything 


130 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

at all about me from Dad, I feel that it can’t be anything to 
my advantage!” 

But an odd misgiving that assailed her for the first time, 
made the words sound a little unconvincing even to her own 
ears. 

“Mummie darling—don’t be mysterious ! Tell me!” 

‘‘He wishes to marry you,” said Lady Pendre, quietly. 
“Perhaps he may tell you so this evening. I thought it would 
be better to warn you.” 

Vicky stared at her mother in angry astonishment. Then 
she gave a short sarcastic laugh. 

“Has he forgotten that only a few years ago he was dead 
keen on marrying Barbara?” 

“That may have made him think of you. You’re not so 
very unlike.” 

“Martin always said he liked me. He was inclined to be 
jealous, but I scoffed at the idea.” 

“Martin!” echoed Lady Pendre. 

“Why, it would be almost like a deceased wife’s sister,” 
continued Vicky, in a hard angry tone. “I wonder why he 
should imagine that I’m any more likely to marry him than 
Barbara was ? He’s years too old for either of us.” 

“I want you to be very kind and polite in what you say 
to him. He is, as you say, a great deal older than you are, 
and this may be a very serious thing for him. At any rate, 
he has quite convinced your father of—of his affection for 
you. And, Vicky dear—there’s something else—” 

“Yes, Mummie? Any more dismal surprises?” 

“Your father has encouraged him. He wishes this mar¬ 
riage to take place.” She watched her daughter’s face as she 
spoke. 

“He can’t make me marry him, though,” remarked Vicky, 
with cheerful decision. “He can make me do most disagree¬ 
able things he wants me to, but not this!” 

“I don’t want you to decide anything in a hurry. Think 
it over quietly. Soames is a good man—a rich man—you’d 
be settled near us. We shouldn’t lose you. . . . And you’d 


131 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 

have everything in the way of wealth and comfort—just as 
you have now.” 

Lady Pendre felt that in justice to Ernest Soames she must 
set this side of the matter quite clearly before her daughter. 
But she knew already that she was pleading a lost cause. 
Worldly material things had no charm for Vicky. 

“Why, what do you mean, Mummie? These things don’t 
make any difference to me. I’m as certain that I don’t want 
to marry him as I can be. I’m not sure that I shall ever 
marry, but if I do, I suppose it will be Martin.” She made 
the admission quite frankly. “Dad will never let him come 
here again, though, now he suspects me of liking him.” 

Lady Pendre made another effort. 

“Vicky—sometimes the very fact of a man’s love makes a 
girl feel differently about him. That’s really the reason of a 
great many marriages. And it’s why I don’t want you to 
decide anything in a hurry. Take time. It’s a very important 
thing both for him and yourself.” 

“I do wish that Barbara had married him!” exclaimed 
Vicky, fervently. 

“You would have a beautiful home—plenty of money—I’m 
sure he’d be devoted and kind.” 

Vicky went up to her mother and put her thin arms, round 
her neck. Lady Pendre was unused to such demonstrations 
from her younger daughter and it touched her. 

“Darling Mummie, you can’t possibly want me to marry 
that old man! He’s got a red nose and his hair is turning 
grey!” She uttered the words with all the cruel contempt of 
youth for the manifestations of age. “He must be more 
than forty. And I’m barely eighteen. When I was born he 
was older than I am now. The only thing, of course, that 
could induce me to marry him would be to get shut of Dad 
forever! And I’m not sure that I don’t really prefer Dad,” 
she added, with terrible candor. 

“Do you really want to leave us so much, Vicky?” 

Again the thin arms were clasped round her neck, and 
Vicky imprinted a shy little kiss on her mother’s brow. 

“Not you, Mummie darling. But Dad’s been pretty im- 


132 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


possible lately, hasn't he? I expect he’s aching to get rid of 
me. Perhaps it’s a put-up job between him and Pamela!” 

“No—no—I’m sure it isn’t. He says Pamela knows noth¬ 
ing of it.” 

“And when I come to think of it, it isn’t so much on account 
of Dad that Eustie and I want to get away from here. It’s 
on account of the . . . shadow.” 

At this word which only a few nights ago she had heard 
from the lips of her son, Lady Pendre visibly started. Her 
face quivered momentarily; it was as if a light wind had 
passed over the motionless surface of a very still lake, ruffling 
it almost imperceptibly. 

The shadow? Yes, Eustace had said that Vicky was aware 
of it too. And she too wished to escape from it—this in¬ 
tangible, menacing, sinister thing that brooded invisibly over 
Pendre. 

Vicky’s face was white as paper. It seemed that in men¬ 
tioning the shadow she was inviting it to draw near and 
envelop her in its deep impenetrable folds. 

She flung herself on her knees and put her arms about her 
mother, as if to seek the comfort of that human contact amid 
a scene of confusion and terror. 

“What have we done?” she cried. “I’m sure you can tell 
me if you choose! You can’t have lived with it all these 
years without knowing at least why it’s there!” 

Lady Pendre shrank a little away. Eustace’ words rang in 
her ears, shrilly, accusingly: Vicky thinks it’s because one of 
us must have offended God. ... 

She felt Vicky’s icy cheek pressed against hers. And then 
suddenly pitying her, she stooped a little and held her daugh¬ 
ter in a very close and comforting clasp. She had not held 
Vicky thus since she was quite a small child, but there was 
no trace of awkwardness or of unaccustomedness in her ges¬ 
ture. At heart she was a very maternal woman, with a deep 
love for all small and defenseless things. And, in a sense, 
the intimate human contact, so rarely sought or given, was 
infinitely reassuring to them both. For a few minutes they 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 133 

remained thus, without speaking. Vicky was the first to break 
free, with the rough gesture of a young animal. 

‘ Don’t mind me, Mummie!—I really never meant to men¬ 
tion it to you. Honestly I didn’t. But just then it seemed so 
frightfully close—you must have felt it, too, didn’t you? I 
used to hope, of course, that Martin would come and take me 
away, directly I was old enough to be married. And now I 
suppose I am old enough—but he’s in Malta—he doesn’t dare 
write—it all seems so hopeless! But he’s such a dear, and 
so splendid, isn’t he ? And he loved darling old Phip so much. 

. . . Is it quite impossible to think of my marrying him ? I’m 
sure he’d make me frightfully happy.” 

She lifted her face, white, childish, appealing, with a queer 
look of exhaustion upon it, as if she had just passed through 
some strange nervous crisis. . . . 

Not impossible . . . but I’m afraid your father would 
never give his consent, so you might be very badly off.” 

Lady Pendre saw that the mere suggestion of her marriage 
with another man had turned Vicky’s thoughts passionately 
toward Martin Sedgwick. She did not think that anything 
Soames could say would have the effect of dispossessing that 
younger and earlier rival. 

“He is very generous when he approves, and if you were 
to marry Mr. Soames, I am sure he’d give you just what he 
gave Barbara.” 

“I don’t want money—I hate it!” said Vicky, passionately. 
“I want light and fresh air and freedom—just the things I 
can’t have here! And do you think Mr. Soames could give 
them to me? I should feel just as much a prisoner in his 
great rich stuffy house as I do here.” 

She rose and stood there, a childish almost pathetic figure. 

“Don’t, don’t try to persuade me, Mummie. Why, Martin 
would never forgive me!” 

“I don’t want to persuade you. I only thought you’d better 
know—I felt it wouldn’t be fair to spring it upon you without 
a word of preparation.” 

She rose and went up to Vicky, taking her face between 


134 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

her hands and kissing her two or three times with a kind of 
delicate, tender deliberation. 

“I want you to be happy,” she whispered. “I want you not 
to feel shadows . . . and things like that.” 

Vicky almost worshiped her beautiful mother then. She 
gazed up into her face, with dark, humid eyes. 

“Oh, Mummie, I do love you,” she said, smiling through her 
tears. “And I’m sorry I’ve been such a beast to you so often. 
But you’ve never let me come quite close to you before, have 
you? I used to think you didn’t care, when Dad was angry 
and punished me.” 

“I did care. But I couldn’t interfere.” 

“If I’d known for certain that you cared I shouldn’t have 
minded half so much!” 

“You must never think I don’t care, Vicky. But a woman’s 
position is often a very difficult one. She may be torn two 
ways—between her duty to her husband and her love for her 
child.” Her beautiful eyes met Vicky’s quite squarely. The 
child was old enough now to know that it hadn’t always been 
easy—that there had been a conflict of love as well as of 
loyalty. 

Vicky slipped out of the room. It was time to go and dress 
for dinner—to put on the white velvet dress with its heavy 
old-fashioned folds. 

But surely she would in future always be able to approach 
her mother with that new fearless intimacy born of to-night’s 
crisis? Their interview had broken down some if not all of 
the barriers that stood between them and perfect confidence. 
At any rate, Vicky reflected, there wouldn’t always be that 
dreadful thought behind all the events, that her mother didn’t 
care what happened to her. She did care, although it would 
be impossible after that timid reluctant explanation to ask her 
to intervene between her husband and her child. But the 
aloof, detached attitude would, Vicky felt, be far more com¬ 
prehensible in the future. She would understand that it was 
something that really couldn’t be helped, since indubitably it 
formed part of the mystery which the children had always 
felt characterized the mutual attitude of their father and 


ARRANGING A MARRIAGE 


135 


mother. Vicky herself had never been able to determine 
whether it was on her mother’s side one of active hatred or 
deepest sympathy. But it was a mystery to which they pos¬ 
sessed no clue, and even the hint that Lady Pendre must some¬ 
times have suffered in silence, threw no ultimate light upon 
it. Silence was compatible with either attitude. . . . 

5 

Lady Pendre was once more alone. Those two fateful in¬ 
terviews, following so rapidly one upon another, had ex¬ 
hausted her. 

But with regard to Vicky, she felt that something had been 
definitely achieved. She had established a friendly, even an 
intimate, relation with her daughter, such as had never be¬ 
fore existed. She was a reserved woman, and to take the 
necessary steps had always seemed to her difficult, even im¬ 
possible. Only a crisis such as the present one, could have 
broken down her icy reserve, and in the attempt to save her 
daughter from an ambitious, loveless marriage, she had found 
a straight way to that daughter’s heart. 

There were, however, things she could not explain to her 
children. The shadow for instance. . . . Eustace and Vicky 
had divined its existence even while they possessed no clue 
as to its nature. Barbara had escaped all knowledge of it; 
she was a regular Wingrave, hard, insensitive, unimagina¬ 
tive. Her ideals were all frankly materialistic, and her pres¬ 
ent life fully satisfied them. With Philip, conjecture was 
more difficult, for he too could be reserved. Yet, that last 
letter of his. . . . 

As for Eustace, she could never think of that interview 
she had had with him only a few nights ago, without pain. 
In looking back upon it she felt that she had done nothing to 
help him, but possibly a great deal to alienate him still further. 
But all his wishes and requests had approached too closely to 
that forbidden territory she was bound in honor—or was it 
dishonor?—never to cross. 

Her husband’s mind was for the moment far too much oc- 


136 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


cupied with this proposed marriage between Soames and 
Vicky, to spare much thought for the discontent and incipient 
rebellion of his son. The first thing, in his opinion, was to 
get Vicky out of the way. She was the one to create dis¬ 
turbance, a stormy petrel, whose advent heralded tempest. 
This marriage must first be accomplished, and then he could 
turn his whole attention to Eustace. 


CHAPTER VIII 


Refusal 

1 

RNEST SOAMES was a thin, slightly bald, man of forty, 
with a hard-cut, weather-beaten face, a sharp nose rather 
red at the tip, a peaked chin, thin lips, and greyish eyes. His 
red hair, in which Vicky had pitilessly discerned the snows 
of eld, was carefully arranged to conceal as much as possible 
of his cranium. 

He was deeply attached to all forms of sport, and hunted 
regularly four days a week throughout the season, except 
when he was laid up—as not infrequently happened—with 
broken bones. The list of his fractures seemed to violate the 
laws of chance, and many people listened to the recital of them 
with sturdily checked yawns. 

He possessed at Moth Hill some of the finest pheasant 
shooting in the county, and he was an ardent fisherman. His 
friendship for Lord Pendre was solidly founded upon a 
mutual love of golf. This absorbing pastime threw them a 
great deal into each other’s society. Soames also found him 
a useful man to consult about investments; under his aegis 
he was now enjoying a much larger income than formerly. 
That son-in-law of his, Gerard Hammond, had his finger on 
the pulse, so to speak, of the City. He seemed to have a kind 
of sixth sense by which he was enabled unerringly to foretell 
when a thing was going up, and, what was really more im¬ 
portant, when it was likely in the near future to fall. The 
game of stocks and shares was new to Ernest Soames, who 
had been brought up with a proper regard for gilt-edged 
investments with small but sure returns. 

137 


138 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


No physical exertion had ever been known to tire him; he 
was as hard as nails. He had killed animals of all sizes and 
of varying degrees of ferocity, in most of the countries of 
the world that offered facilities for so doing. He was proud 
of his narrow escapes, of having just missed being trampled 
upon by an elephant or mauled by a lion. He was always 
in training, always, as he would express it, “fit.” The in¬ 
tellectual life had few attractions for him; the hours he spent 
indoors he counted wasted. 

Soames had felt the slight awkwardness of approaching a 
man with matrimonial intent on behalf of one daughter when 
he had already been refused by the other. He had indeed 
genuinely admired Barbara Wingrave; he had felt, too, that 
she would make a charmingly decorative adjunct to his home, 
which even then had begun to feel the urgent need of a 
feminine presence. Her refusal had made him volunteer for 
service in East Africa, whence he had returned soon after 
the Armistice to find Barbara already the wife of another 
man and absorbed in conjugal and maternal duties. And, 
then, of late he had begun to see in Vicky the longed-for 
woman. She was perhaps less conventionally beautiful than 
her sister; she was also far more childish and unformed, but 
she was full of a certain wild charm that appealed to him, 
even though it did give her on occasion the aspect of having 
breathlessly escaped from the nursery. 

To his astonishment and relief, Lord Pendre had met him 
half-way, directly he had gathered to what objective his 
stuttering and embarrassed phrases tended. He wanted Vicky, 
did he? Very well, then—he should have her. Lord Pendre 
promised to promote the marriage as far as it lay in his 
power. From a pecuniary point of view Soames would find 
that Vicky was quite as good a match as her elder sister, and 
then she hadn’t—it was almost the only thing he could think 
of to her credit—one-half of the extravagant tastes that Bar¬ 
bara possessed. She would make him a good little wife, di¬ 
rectly she settled down. He might find her a bit of a handful 
at first—he had done so himself. Lord Pendre did not voice 
these thoughts aloud, but he was aware that Ernest Soames" 


REFUSAL 


139 


wish to marry Vicky had made him feel quite tenderly toward 
her. She was going to be a credit to him, after all. And 
when once she was out of the way, things would surely go on 
much more smoothly and quietly at Pendre. A slight feeling 
of compassion for Soames crossed his mind at this juncture, 
for Vicky’s presence in any house could hardly make for 
peace. He wasn’t sure that it wouldn’t have been more hon¬ 
orable to give Soames a delicate hint as to the difficulties of 
the task he was so eager to undertake. . . . 

“I wonder what made him take a fancy to Vicky,” Lady 
Pendre thought, as she took her seat at one end of the long 
polished dining-table that night. 

Opposite to her was her husband, immense, formidable, 
titanic, but imperturbable and bland, with an almost sardonic 
look of self-satisfaction upon his swarthy face. It was the 
look of a man who was just about to conclude a highly suc¬ 
cessful deal with another of equal ability. 

Vicky and Soames sat side by side, and opposite to them 
were Eustace and Pamela. Pamela was looking very lovely, 
and slightly more animated than usual. Like Lady Pendre, 
she had received a wholly false impression as to the reason of 
Ernest Soames’ increasedly frequent visits to the house of 
late. And she had not quite made up her mind what she was 
going to say to him. Subconsciously, however, she knew that 
she intended to accept him. She could not be blind to the 
material advantages accruing to the position of Mrs. Soames 
of Moth Hill Park, and she was inclined to believe that 
romance only entered a woman’s life once. She had had hers, 
and it had perished, but there were still solid and attractive 
things to be found in the market and she meant to capture 
some of them if she could. And although the Pendres, with 
the exception of Vicky, were very kind to her and offered her 
a practically unlimited hospitality, she had lately begun to 
feel that this state of things couldn’t go on forever. A few 
years ago Soames would have had no more chance with her 
than he had had with Barbara, but she was now placed in a 
very different position, and felt more than a little inclined to 


140 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


listen to his suit. Once or twice Lord Pendre had even 
hinted to her, as if to prepare her, that there was a reason 
for Soames’ visits—she would know all about it soon—he 
hoped that something might come of it. Rich chap and all 
that, and a good sportsman. . . . There could surely be no 
other attraction at Pendre, Pamela thought, for she had 
always underrated Vicky’s significance. 

Both she and Eustace were wholly ignorant of impending 
events. Vicky had had no opportunity of confiding in her 
brother. But she would tell him later—they would laugh over 
it together. Fancy old Soames! . . . 

The girl was looking rather pale and worn, the result of an 
obstinate cold which had pulled her down a good deal, and of 
the emotional crisis through which she had so recently passed. 
But Soames thought he had never seen her look so perfect as 
she did to-night in her regal little dress of white velvet with 
a string of pearls round her neck. Her short dark hair was 
brushed off her face, revealing all the beauty of her small 
square brow. Her dark eyes were almost feverishly bright. 
She had a look of eager, restless youth, full of inquiry, full 
of courage. 

Lord Pendre glanced at his daughter with approval. He 
was thinking of her now as Soames’ future wife, and as he 
saw them side by side he felt a certain compunction because 
the disparity in their years was so cruelly marked. But it 
constituted no tragedy in his eyes. He comforted himself 
with the reflection that Vicky required a firm hand over her, 
and Soames being so much older would be certain to wield 
it; he was credited in the neighborhood with a ferocious tem¬ 
per when roused. A young, foolish, and indulgent husband 
would be the ruin of Vicky. She could only be adequately 
controlled by fear, as Lord Pendre had discovered in her 
nursery days. 

Of course she looked young, even childish for her years— 
she was so slight and straight. But her neck and arms, though 
thin, were very white; she had the warm white skin of her 
mother. There was a certain immature charm about her 
which her father reluctantly recognized. 


REFUSAL 


141 


He had no idea that his wife had told her anything of what 
was impending. He had gathered that Giselda’s attitude 
would be one of resistance, passive resistance. Perhaps he 
would have been annoyed had he known of the emotional 
scene that had taken place between mother and daughter just 
before dinner. 

Unfortunately, Soames, unaware that he was treading upon 
thorny ground, mentioned the Treshams. He had heard that 
Mrs. Tresham had been less well even than usual of late. 

“I hear they're Catholics,” Eustace observed. 

“Yes. I didn’t know it myself until after I’d let them 
Glen Cottage. Mrs. Dyrham never mentioned it. And of 
course I’d rather they hadn’t been,” added Soames. “We 
have so few in the neighborhood now, that for their own 
sakes they should keep away. Of course it was different 
when the Chittendens had this place—it made a nucleus for 
Catholic families hereabouts.” 

He looked toward his host as he spoke, and for the first 
time became aware of his slightly constrained silence. Lord 
Pendre was frowning, and his under-lip was thrust a little 
forward. He looked as black as thunder. 

But Eustace was too desperately interested in what Soames 
was saying, to pay any attention to his father. He bent for¬ 
ward eagerly and said: 

“I never heard the Chittendens were Catholics! Did they 
have a chapel here?” 

“Yes—in what you’ve made your ballroom,” said Soames. 

“Really? In the ballroom? I wonder what their ghosts 
would say if they could come back,” Eustace remarked, with 
languid irony. 

The silence was ominous, and Ernest became aware for 
the first time of a certain constraint that menaced the har¬ 
mony of the evening. He, poor man, was innocent of any 
desire to offend; more than that, he was especially anxious 
to please. But he had never discussed the subject of religion 
with Lord Pendre, and had thought little of his refusal- 
now pretty well known in the neighborhood—to allow his wife 
to call on Mrs. Tresham. Nor had it ever occurred to him 


142 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


that the reason was in any way connected with her religion. 
He had no idea that Lord Pendre “felt strongly” on the sub¬ 
ject—it would have seemed somehow quite out of keeping 
with his general indifference to spiritual things, and with 
those broad-minded liberal views he really believed were his. 

Lord Pendre glanced savagely at his son. 

“Let us hope their ghosts have long since learnt the error 
of their ways,” he observed sententiously. 

“I wonder which of us can be sure of that,” said Eustace. 

The knowledge that there had once been a Catholic chapel 
in the house moved him strangely. It was gone now—that 
wonder-thing—and the great lofty room, once consecrated to 
holy uses, had become a resplendent ballroom. It had been 
used only on a few occasions, but Eustace could remember a 
brilliant scene there to celebrate Barbara’s coming out. 
Philip had come back from the trenches on a week’s leave; he 
had not been very well. That dated it—the first winter of 
the War. A sudden up-rush from Eustace’ subconsciousness 
showed him Barbara then in her most radiant beauty, dancing 
with Soames. She must have been eighteen then, just Vicky’s 
age, and Phip was a year older but had already had several 
months’ service. He was a slender stripling with dark hair 
and bright dark eyes. . . . 

Eustace was roused from these dreams of the past by 
Vicky’s clear young voice saying emphatically: 

“It seems an awful desecration—even if we don’t believe 
what they did!” 

Soames’ presence gave her the requisite courage to speak 
her mind. Otherwise she would have incurred a sharp re¬ 
buke. As it was, her father merely frowned heavily at her. 

“I should like to know more of the Treshams,” said 
Eustace. “I met Miss Tresham the other day—her car had 
broken down just the other side of Llyn. Mrs. Welby was 
with her.” It was an easy way of informing his father 
exactly what had happened. 

“Ah, a very capable woman, Mrs. Welby,” remarked 
Soames. “I imagine she pretty well runs the house for them.” 

Being perfectly tolerant himself, with the tolerance born of 


REFUSAL 


143 


complete indifference, Soames would have been astonished 
had he realized Lord Pendre’s attitude toward these estimable 
and harmless people. 

“Have they got a long lease of Glen Cottage ?” inquired 
Lord Pendre. 

“Seven years, with the option of renewing. And they 
haven’t been there quite two.” 

“No chance of getting rid of them then?” inquired Lord 
Pendre. 

“Not the slightest. And really they’re excellent tenants— 
give no sort of trouble. Mrs. Tresham is half Italian, I be¬ 
lieve—she is very delicate and hardly ever gets beyond the 
garden. Sad, because she is still quite young. It must be 
horribly dull for the poor little girl, but Mrs. Dyrham tells 
me she’s devoted to her mother, and doesn’t mind.” 

Pamela, aware of cross-currents, remarked: “I really 
wonder, all the same, at their coming here. There are no 
Catholic families in the neighborhood except a few shop¬ 
keepers at Llyn. It seems so odd to settle here, miles from 
anywhere. And they’re not even near a church—it’s ever so 
far from the one at Llyn.” 

“Oh, little Miss Tresham thinks nothing of that in her two- 
seater,” answered Soames, pleasantly; “she drives herself 
down in time for the eight o’clock Mass every day, I’m told.” 

2 

Eight o’clock Mass . . . Eustace kept his eyes rigorously 
fixed upon his plate, and thus was unaware that his parents 
had both bestowed upon him a swift, interrogative glance. 

Eight o’clock ... He wondered whether he would be able 
to escape sufficiently early so as to meet Miss Tresham either 
on her way there or on her return. For although he hardly 
yet realized it, her religion constituted for him one of her 
principal attractions, and that she cared passionately for it, 
did but enhance her value in his eyes. 

He was, however, still so ignorant as to what that religion 
might entail in the matter of faith that she seemed to have 


144 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


become all of a sudden an almost mysterious remote figure, 
possessing an other-worldliness concealed beneath the girlish 
charm and gaiety of her manner. 

“Old Mrs. Chittenden died at a very advanced age, as I 
expect you remember/’ said Ernest, turning to Lord Pendre. 
“She had outlived all her near relations, and the very distant 
cousin who inherited Pendre couldn’t afford to keep it up. 
That’s how it came into the market. But I remember the old 
lady telling me once that the Lamp in the chapel had been 
kept burning before the Tabernacle for nearly five centuries 
—even all through the penal times. Pendre being so far from 
the main road, they escaped molestation.” 

Eustace stirred restlessly in his seat. Again Soames’ care¬ 
lessly proffered information had made a profound impression 
upon him. How strange to think that only about a dozen 
years ago the place had been in Catholic hands . . . this very 
house in which he was living now. Did anything remain of 
its ancient mystical atmosphere, or had all that been rudely de¬ 
stroyed by the wealth and materialism of the Wingraves? 
Quenched like the Lamp that had burned before the Taber¬ 
nacle for five centuries? Oh, the pity of it—even if one didn’t 
believe that the Catholic Church was right! Even so, it 
was the destruction of something historical, that stretched 
back across the ages to the days when Englishmen did hold 
that Faith and were ready and willing to die in its defense. 

Yet, surely, something of it all must remain—an atmos¬ 
phere—an “aura”—it couldn’t have been completely lost for¬ 
ever. Perhaps, indeed, it was one of those things that couldn’t 
be utterly eliminated. 

Then involuntarily the thought occurred to him: “Perhaps 
I shall be able to light that Lamp again I” The words echoed 
in his ears as clearly as if someone had uttered them aloud, 
and he could hardly believe that those present had failed to 
hear them too. And he felt guilty, almost as if he had had 
a secret disloyal thought. 

“I’m thankful to think it was extinguished, and that all it 
stood for has been banished forever from Pendre,” said Lord 
Pendre, in a loud, rather angry voice. He flung the words 


REFUSAL 


145 

down almost like a challenge, as if he were aware that those 
present were feeling a little sentimental regret for the de¬ 
struction of something old. An uncomfortable silence en¬ 
sued, and now it did really occur to Soames, who through¬ 
out the conversation had been extraordinarily obtuse, that 
the subject under discussion was not an agreeable one to his 
host, nor, judging by her pale and troubled face, to his 
hostess. But Eustace’ ardent interest had encouraged him 
to talk, and he had felt, too, that Vicky was lending him her 
eager young attention. And tonight he was thinking much 
more about Vicky than about her father. 

Now, however, he grew slightly red and uncomfortable, 
aware that he had inadvertently committed some gaffe. Lord 
Pendre’s face as well as his voice, his rough harsh words, 
betrayed anger. Eustace and Vicky seemed to relapse into 
an obstinate silence. They were accustomed, perhaps, to 
these sudden ebullitions of wrath. 

The gossip of the neighborhood had informed Soames that 
the Wingrave children had been educated practically with¬ 
out religion, excepting for what they had been able to pick 
up at school. The subject had not been permitted to occupy 
an important place in their lives. He knew that they went 
to morning service with their father on Sundays, that none 
of them had been confirmed, and that Lady Pendre had 
never been known to set foot inside a church since her ar¬ 
rival at the Park twelve years before. 

Perhaps there was some reason for this strange and un¬ 
usual deficiency in their education. He had never been at all 
intimate with any member of the family except Lord Pendre, 
who was a very close man about his domestic affairs, and, 
in fact, hardly ever mentioned them. 

As squire of the parish and patron of the Moth Hill liv¬ 
ing, Soames was a member of the Church of England. He 
accepted its obligations quite simply, just as other men in 
his position did. He seldom failed to attend the eleven 
o’clock service on Sunday morning or to read the lessons 
in a loud monotonous voice. He felt that in doing these things 
he was setting a practical example of loyalty to Church and 


146 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


State. Like Lord Pendre, he mingled a flavor of patriotism 
with his religion. He had the feeling that a man could not 
be such a perfect patriot unless he belonged to the Estab¬ 
lished Church and acknowledged the King of England to 
be the defender /oi his faith. The Church of England! He 
glanced at Vicky. She was still so young that he felt he 
could easily supply any deficiencies in her spiritual education. 

To-night her excessively youthful appearance annoyed 
him. She looked like a child, beside Miss Webb, for in¬ 
stance, but a highly intelligent rather headstrong child. As 
he looked at her, the support and encouragement he had re¬ 
ceived from her father lost something of their power to 
cheer him. When they were married they would inevitably 
be taken for father and daughter, rather than for husband 
and wife. 

Then he began to wonder what Vicky’s thoughts were, 
and how she amused herself and spent her time in this great 
house. Whether it was true, as gossip alleged, that she didn’t 
hit off with Pamela Webb, or with her father, either, for 
that matter. Whether she could conceivably be happy in 
the future at Moth Hill. Of course he would take her to 
London—abroad—her youth would demand that. 

Once he had believed that he loved Barbara, but it seemed 
to him that ancient feeling had been pale and shadowy be¬ 
side the love he felt for this beautiful child. She had some¬ 
thing Barbara had not and could never have. But he real¬ 
ized for the first time that there were rocks ahead. All her 
father’s sympathy and support seemed unavailing now. 

Somehow he wasn’t sure that he would have the courage 
to approach her to-night. She seemed so far away, so elu¬ 
sive. There were, however, apparently no rival claimants 
in the field. Vicky—so her father had assured him—had 
not yet come out; she had seen practically no one. There 
was that much of hope, but it scarcely consoled him now. 
Vicky made him feel almost an old man. . . . 

By the time Lady Pendre had left the room with her 
daughter and Pamela, Ernest had come to the miserable con¬ 
clusion that the evening hadn’t been at all a success; it had 


REFUSAL 147 

begun badly, owing to this insensate discussion about Cath¬ 
olics, and it would probably end worse. 

3 

Events, however, progressed according to schedule, and 
Ernest Soames found himself alone with Vicky at the far 
end of the green drawing room. The others had all settled 
down to a game of bridge in the big yellow room beyond, 
and through the arched doorway they could be seen sitting 
round the delicate old Chippendale card table. 

There had been a little initial difficulty in persuading Pam¬ 
ela to join in the game. Vicky was a far better player than 
she was, she assured Lord Pendre modestly. But he only 
said rather curtly: 

“Nonsense! Of course you must play. Vicky can talk to 
Ernest.” 

Pamela had imagined that her companion in solitude would 
certainly have been Eustace, and perhaps she had looked 
forward to an undisturbed and intimate conversation with 
him. She so seldom had the opportunity of talking to him; 
he was always out alone or else with Vicky, who “froze” 
on to him in her usual possessive manner. It was an un¬ 
pleasant surprise to see Vicky and Soames disappear into 
the green drawing room, and for the first time she began 
to wonder whether it had not been purposely planned. But 
she dismissed the thought. She had formed the opinion that 
Ernest was fastidious about women, preferring something 
very highly finished and sophisticated. Not a raw undis¬ 
ciplined child, like Vicky. 

Lord Pendre glanced complacently toward the two figures, 
one darkly and the other palely silhouetted against the faded 
green of the walls in the room beyond. Only the firelight 
threw a rosy glow over the ample heavy folds of Vicky’s 
strange dress. He wondered what Soames was saying— 
what progress he was making. And for the second time he 
felt a certain novel almost sentimental tenderness toward 
Vicky. She wasn’t going to disgrace him, after all. She 


148 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


was going to make a wealthy important marriage. Not so 
much money perhaps as her sister, but a very nice old 
property with a good house and the best pheasant shooting 
for miles round. 

“I don’t know if they’ve told you,” Ernest began hesi¬ 
tatingly. 

He had never funked a fence in his life, as he would 
have expressed it, but when he uttered those words he felt 
that his voice was not steady and that his knees had lost 
strength. 

“Yes, Mummie has,” answered Vicky, raising her great 
eyes to his. Her face was white, like some delicate soft 
woodland flower. 

Involuntarily, Soames glanced back at the room they had 
just left. 

Lady Pendre was sitting sideways to him, but he could 
see the clear-cut line of her profile—such a perfect profile— 
not a line out of place, and the dark hair growing just as it 
should. Always she had seemed to him a strange cold woman, 
very reticent and reserved. Barbara had once told him that 
her mother was cold to them all except to Philip. Her chil¬ 
dren were not intimate with her. She seemed to hold herself 
mysteriously aloof, displaying a Gallio-like indifference toward 
the petty happenings of Pendre. He was, therefore, the more 
surprised at Vicky’s words. And he wondered what she had 
said to her young daughter to prepare her for his words of 
love. Had she used any influence, either for or against him? 
To persuade or dissuade? Would she support her husband 
in his wish that the marriage should take place very soon? 
It was impossible to answer these questions; he felt utterly 
in the dark, almost as if they were all strangers to him, 
although he had known them for twelve years. Why, he 
could remember Vicky as a baby thing of six, small for her 
age, darting about the garden like a white butterfly. . . . 

Now he seemed to be aware of something mysterious and 
ambiguous, not only in the attitude of Lady Pendre to her 
husband, but also in her relation to her children. That ab¬ 
sence of religion in their young lives. That detachment from 


REFUSAL 149 

their pains and pleasures—she always seemed to him like an 
onlooker, impartial, observant, indifferent. He had even 
heard that she had left the details of her children’s upbring¬ 
ing to her husband. He had praised and rebuked, adminis¬ 
tered reward and punishment, and, despite his reputation for 
harshness, she had never been known to interfere. There 
must have been, therefore, a great lack of love in Vicky’s 
life. Her situation had been, from all accounts, abnormal, 
and he found himself near pitying her as he thought of it. 
Yet it might be, too, that she was like her mother—cold, 
reticent, detached. . . . 

All the same, she didn’t look happy. She had nothing of 
Barbara’s hard scintillating brightness, her arrogant self- 
satisfaction (he was quite sure now that Barbara wouldn’t 
have suited him). No, Vicky had something of the frus¬ 
trated aspect of a child whose favorite toy has been remorse¬ 
lessly confiscated. In repose, her face had a sullen, almost 
defiant look. 

“You’re very young,” he said, after a pause. “And per¬ 
haps I have come too soon. Your father tells me you’ve 
been hardly anywhere yet. So I mustn’t expect you to give 
me an answer at once—to-night. But I love you—I want 
you to be my wife.” 

Soames had a drawling indolent voice, not without an 
agreeable quality. 

Vicky surveyed the situation rapidly and quite impartially; 
she was not unmindful of her mother’s advice. And although 
Ernest’s offer had not made her like him any better or view 
him with more favor, it had undoubtedly given him signifi¬ 
cance and importance in her eyes. She felt indeed slightly 
flattered that this man, her father’s friend, so much older 
than herself, should care for her sufficiently to wish to make 
her his wife. It gave her a sense of pride and importance, 
a grown-up feeling that was novel and not unpleasant. 

But although she was looking at him, listening to him, 
even weighing his words, her thoughts subconsciously were 
most unflatteringly filled with Martin. She was contrasting 
the two men. Martin Sedgwick had told her many times 


150 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


that he loved her. Marriage with him would have seemed a 
kind of joyous adventure. She could have fought for her 
own way—he had often told her that she was a little spit-fire 
and said he pitied the man she would marry, before he had 
so suddenly and inexplicably fallen in love with her himself. 

But if she felt cramped at Pendre, starved of light and 
air and freedom, would she not feel a thousand times more 
cramped and starved at Moth Hill Park? It was a fine old 
Jacobean house, splendidly placed in the midst of a deer 
park, with a lovely lake formed by the natural widening 
of the river at that point. Its wealth was not new, and it 
possessed many cherished treasures of old furniture, pictures 
and china. It was shabby, because Ernest, like most men, 
never observed when things were worn out or required reno¬ 
vating unless the fact were brought home to him by an actual 
hole. But something in its dignified, shabby aspect had im¬ 
pressed Vicky with a sense of atmosphere that she duly 
appreciated. She had often thought how perfect it would 
have been if Barbara had accepted Soames’ offer. 

Then she glanced at him, at his thin peaked face, thin 
almost as a bone, the flesh drawn hard and tight over it, 
the skin weather-beaten and reddened from exposure to 
many climates. The scant reddish hair, touched with grey, 
the cold iron-grey eyes. 

“He reminds me of Dad,” she thought. 

Soames was a smaller, slighter man than her father, but 
he had the same hard autocratic expression, as of one who 
for many years has had his own way. And Vicky knew what 
a man’s hard autocratic selfish rule could be like, how it 
could hurt. She wanted to escape from it, not to place her¬ 
self deliberately beneath it. But perhaps she might have 
chosen Ernest as the lesser of two evils if only she hadn’t 
known and loved Martin. 

At that moment she felt that she loved Martin very much 
indeed. His glorious blue eyes—his fair crisped hair—his 
laughing mouth and hard brown strong hands—everything 
about him. . . . The very way he looked and spoke, and 
moved. . . . 


REFUSAL 


151 


Soames waited patiently for her to speak. And again 
he wondered what was passing in that mind, so dear and 
yet so unknown to him. 

“I’m very sorry,” she said quietly, “but, you see, I’m only 
eighteen, and I don’t want to marry yet.” 

“I would wait a year—two years,” said Ernest Soames. 

“But I hardly know you—you’re Dad’s friend,” she went 
on, fearing that she had not been sufficiently explicit. 

“That’s no reason—is it ?—why you shouldn’t be my wife.” 

Vicky stood there, silent and a little alarmed. She won¬ 
dered how Barbara had dealt with him in precisely similar 
circumstances. She had had, however, the advantage of being 
able to tell him that Girard Hammond stood in the way. 
Vickly inwardly believed that in Barbara’s place she herself 
would have given the preference to Soames, so heartily 
did she dislike her brother-in-law’s superior and slightly 
ironic manner. 

It glanced through her mind then that it would be wise 
perhaps to give Ernest some hint about Martin Sedgwick. 
But on second thought she rejected the idea. Obviously 
Soames was being warmly backed by her father, and he 
would certainly feel obliged to tell him that he, Lord Pendre, 
had made a mistake, there was someone else . . . there was 
Martin Sedgwick. Her poor little secret had already been 
exposed to his censure, and she could imagine his fury 
when he learned that she had confided it to Soames’ ears. 

For days after that meeting in the Pendre woods, she had 
been in disgrace. Her father had handled the situation alone, 
as was his wont, dealing with it decisively and cruelly. He 
had written an angry letter to Martin, forbidding him ever 
to speak to his daughter again, and he had sent Miss Brig- 
stocke away because her vigilance had failed at a critical 
moment. 

Her mother had taken no part in all this. She had only 
shown a marvelous tenderness when Vicky had mentioned 
Martin’s name to her. From her it evoked no anger, no 
menace of reprisals. Oh, why, if she was considered old 
enough to marry, wouldn’t they let her marry Martin? She 


152 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


wouldn’t have asked for any money—she would have just 
gone away quietly and married him, fearless and confident 
that his love would never fail her. 

“I really don’t care much for anyone except Mummie 
and Eustie—and perhaps one other person,” she assured 
Soames now, with engaging candor. “So I am afraid it would 
be no use your waiting and hoping. You mustn’t think 
that I don’t like you, because I do. We’ve always—Eustice 
and I—thought you were a sport!” 

This unexpected flattery brought a reluctant smile to Er¬ 
nest’s face. They had summed him up, then, these young 
things, and judged him, on the whole, not unkindly. 

“Of course, I know it’s awful cheek of me to speak to 
you like this,” she pursued, “but I want to convince you 
that I can’t marry you. There are all sorts of reasons. And 
I don’t really much want to marry—Eustice and I think it’s 
a fool sort of thing to do: We both want to be—free.” 

She put her hand in his—it was so small it reminded him 
of a child’s—and then slipped away through a curtained door 
that led direct into the immense hall beyond. 

4 

In the next room bridge was still in progress, and such 
laconic words as “A heart,” “Spade,” “None,” “Double,” 
could be heard at intervals. 

The departure of Vicky had been so swift and sudden— 
like the flight of a startled moth—that Soames had at first 
some difficulty in realizing that he was alone. 

She had been quite decisive in her refusal. She wanted free¬ 
dom—all the boys and girls were crying out for that now! 
Would it do them any good when they got it? Soames had 
been his own master since he was eighteen; he was there¬ 
fore accustomed to consult only his personal convenience 
when anything had to be settled; he was an autocrat in 
his own house. He had slipped into his father’s mould and 
had never wished to change anything. But this generation 
cried aloud for change. They refused to adapt themselves to 


REFUSAL 


153 


any mould, they rejected almost without discrimination the 
ancient shibboleths. And could they not always answer: 
'‘Well, look what it’s brought us to?” They were the ones 
who had suffered, who had gone through that fiery ordeal 
of sword and shell; it was useless to preach to them the de¬ 
sirability of a return to pre-war conditions and pre-war 
politics. They wanted a new heaven and a new earth. . . . 

Soames knew that if he ever had children, they would 
have shrieked in vain for freedom. But Vicky belonged to 
another generation, and the trend of his thoughts showed 
him somewhat pitilessly the great gulf that divided them in 
these vital things. He would have had in so many ways 
to treat her like a child—a wild, beautiful child. And the 
training of her would have presented an almost insuperable 
difficulty. Many of her opinions were already formed; she 
knew what she desired of life, just perhaps the very things 
he would refuse to give her. 

A sense of despair invaded his heart. She had said so 
little, but every word had seemed pregnant with meaning. 
He loved her, but even if she learnt in time to love him, 
would he ever be able to make her happy? Would she not 
always be like some lovely, wild thing, in a cage, beating 
its wings—crying aloud for liberty ? . . . 

Mortified and chilled by her words, he sat down by the 
fire, feeling unwilling, after his signal defeat, to return to 
the other room. Idly he picked up some illustrated papers— 
Punch, Country Life, the Tatler. In one of the latter he 
came across a charming photograph of Mrs. Gerard Ham¬ 
mond, the work of the latest fashionable photographer. She 
held in her arms her little son, Philip. A brief paragraph 
explained that before her marriage she had been the Honor¬ 
able Barbara Wingrave, elder daughter of the first Lord 
Pendre, who was the owner of that beautiful property, 
Pendre Park, which he had purchased from the Chittenden 
family about twelve years ago. It was a fancy picture, very 
artificial and cleverly contrived, but it was charming too. 
There was something almost exaggeratedly maternal in Bar¬ 
bara’s pose. But he told himself now with a certain bitter- 


154 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

ness that he had never cared passionately for her as he cared 
for this younger sister of hers. Vicky was at once child 
and woman, with an infinitely intriguing, alluring and tor¬ 
menting personality. 

He could almost imagine himself becoming her slave, 
yielding to her in all things, behaving, in short, like many 
elderly men who have married mere girls years younger 
than themselves. 

But, then, he wasn’t old. No one could call forty-two 
old! It was the prime of life. He was just as strong and 
fit as many a much younger man. He could do quite as long 
a day. But perhaps in the eyes of eighteen, forty-two did 
look slightly antediluvian! 

“She hasn’t had time to think it over,” was the ultimate 
result of his meditation. “She’s too much of a child, and then 
she’s been frightfully repressed. I’d give her more freedom 
than that.” He was just in the mood when, had she returned, 
he would have promised her anything and everything . . . 
just to win her. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t a great deal— 
a very great deal—to offer. He was a richer man now than 
when he had proposed to Barbara. Lord Pendre had put him 
on to a thing or two that had turned up trumps. Vicky didn’t 
seem, however, to have given a second thought to his wealth 
and property—things that would certainly have attracted a 
more worldly-minded girl. 

Mummie and Eustie—these two, with an unnamed third 
person whose identity he could not even begin to guess— 
obviously filled her heart to the exclusion of all others. 
Especially Eustie. . . . He had himself been conscious of 
Eustace’ charm to-night at dinner; there was something eager 
and ardent about him. He glanced at the bridge players, 
dimly visible to him at this distance. Eustace and his mother 
were playing together. Lady Pendre coldly lovely, very im¬ 
mobile. Eustace, with his pale narrow sensitive face, his 
deep-set burning eyes, the eyes of a poet, a visionary. One 
couldn’t picture him devoting his life to the huge engineering 
works in the North, from which the Pendre fortunes were 
derived. Would they ever be able to make him fit into that 


REFUSAL 


155 


hole? That overhanging brow of his was quite out of pro¬ 
portion to the rest of his face. There was something rather 
sweet and sensitive about the mouth. Soames had hardly ever 
spoken to Eustace, but he had known and liked Philip, and 
had been deeply grieved at his untimely death. 

Of course, living in the same neighborhood, Ernest knew 
something of the endless gossip about the Wingraves—had 
heard that all Lord Pendre’s hopes and nearly all his love had 
been concentrated upon that elder son, so that he had never 
pretended to care for Eustace, who was said to be in some 
ways “unsatisfactory.” 

Those two younger ones seemed to form a group apart. 
They clung together. And Lady Pendre, who had the name 
of being utterly cold and indifferent to her children, still 
counted for something in her young daughter’s life. Mummie 
and Eustie. . . . 

The game was just finished. Soames was invited to join, 
and Eustace, with a certain eagerness, offered him his place. 

Lord Pendre poured out a whisky and soda for Soames and 
one for himself before the new rubber began. Eustace, who 
hated whisky and wondered why other men should be so con¬ 
tinually thirsty, made his escape. He desperately longed to 
have a talk with Vicky before she went to bed. And he had 
an idea that to-night perhaps she would be waiting for him. 

“Why doesn’t Soames fall in love with Pamela?” he 
thought; “he must want a wife in that great house.” 

He ran upstairs, down a long passage, up another little 
flight of old crooked steps and into the schoolroom, a den he 
now shared with Vicky, and where even Pamela seldom ven¬ 
tured to interrupt them. 


CHAPTER IX 


The Shadow Deepens 

1 

^T^HE schoolroom was in darkness except for the dying 
scarlet embers of a fire. In the obscurity Eustace could 
only just discern his sister leaning back in a big old-fashioned 
armchair, with her feet stretched out toward the ample 
hearth. She was still wearing that strange old-world dress 
of ivory velvet that looked as if it had been taken out of some 
ancient chest and dipped—as he fantastically thought—in 
moonlight. 

She sprang up quickly and made a little rush toward him. 
He felt her two thin arms about his neck; they were very 
cold. 

“Look out—don’t choke me—” he said, struggling. 

He fumbled for the electric light, but she stopped him. 

“Oh, no, Eustie—it’s much nicer talking like this. And 
there is enough light to swear by.” 

She rubbed her soft cheek against his. 

Eustace sat down near her. He felt that she had some 
secret to divulge. Even at dinner-time she had looked oddly 
excited. 

“Oh, Eustie, darling, did you know he was going to?” 

“Going to? Who? What? What on earth are you talk¬ 
ing about ?” 

He was frankly puzzled. What new surprise was she going 
to spring upon him? 

“Mr. Soames—he wants to marry me! I can’t imagine 
why, can you? I do hate having proposals, Eustace—unless 
of course—” 


156 


THE SHADOW DEEPENS 


157 


“Unless ?—” Eustace lifted his brows. 

But Vicky was wary. 

“Unless it was someone I really wanted to marry/’ 

Eustace knelt on the rug in front of the hearth and tried 
to coax the fire into renewed life. When he had succeeded 
in this task and had been rewarded by a thin spurt of flame, 
he went back to his seat, observing dryly: 

“A woman may not marry her grandfather. I’ve seen it 
written up in the church porch!” 

“Oh, I’m glad you think it was all right of me to refuse,” 
said Vicky. “But I’m sure Dad must be awfully keen on it— 
they’re such pals. I did so want to ask him why—what he 
saw in Dad to make such a tremendous friend of—but I was 
afraid of offending him. I expect they simply adore talking 
about that wretched bunker at the seventh hole!” 

She screwed up her face till she looked like a lovely, mali¬ 
cious little witch. 

“I’m very glad you refused him,” remarked Eustace, light¬ 
ing a cigarette and handing one to Vicky. “Wasn’t he keen 
on Barbara once? ‘How happy could I be with either!”’ he 
quoted mockingly. 

“Then you’ll stick up for me, won’t you, Eustie?” 

“I always do, don’t I? Even when you behave like a little 
devil let loose! He must be an awful ass, anyhow, to pro¬ 
pose to a kid like you!” 

“That’s what I felt about it too. Still, it would have been a 
quick way of escape, wouldn’t it? Away from the shadow. 
...” She put out her little cold hand and grasped one of 
his almost fiercely. 

“No,” he said, pressing her hand as if to reassure her. 
“Don’t try to escape like that till the right man comes along. 
He’s sure to, you know, Vicky—you looked simply topping 
to-night. You quite cut out poor old Pamela. I wonder he 
didn’t go for her—he’d have had much more chance. You 
ought to have suggested it to him.” 

“Oh, I shouldn’t have dared. He looked so terribly in 
earnest. But I did tell him we thought him an awful sport, 
and he took that all right!” 


158 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“Well, I hope some day that you and Martin’ll fix it up. 
You are pretty keen on him, aren’t you, Vicky?” 

Vicky flushed. “Yes. I didn’t realize how keen, somehow, 
till to-night. It would be awful, wouldn’t it, to have to leave 
off loving Martin, just because one was going to marry a man 
one didn’t care a hang about. But Dad’s been so frightfully 
offensive to him, I expect he’s quite choked off by now. Per¬ 
haps he’s got another girl by this time—someone in 
Malta ...” 

“He can hardly have got there yet. Of course he may 
have met someone on the voyage out.” Eustace had his own 
motive for teasing her; she was beginning to look so sad and 
hopeless. “And, anyhow, don’t marry old Soames. Of course 
he’s very rich, but then you’ve never cared for money.” He 
grinned delightedly. “Somehow I can’t picture you as Mrs. 
Soames!” 

“Oh, Eustie, what a comfort you are to me!” she said, with 
a sigh of relief. “I don’t know what I should do without 
you.” 

Presently, as they sat there, clinging to each other in si¬ 
lence, they heard a sound of wheels, of throbbing engines in 
the smooth, graveled drive below. They rose and groped 
their way across the room, and drew aside the blind. It was 
a cold clear night, and the March sky was scattered with 
brilliant frosty stars. 

Then they saw the figure of a man emerge from the house 
and go quickly down the broad shallow steps. He stood there 
for a moment irresolutely, and glanced up at the windows. 
Vicky instinctively drew back into the shadow of the curtain. 
Then he stepped into the car; it moved away, increasing its 
speed, and was soon traveling rapidly down the long avenue, 
where the lime trees interlaced their still leafless brown 
boughs. 

“He’s gone,” whispered Vicky, clutching her brother’s arm. 
“Do you think he’s told Dad? There’ll be an awful shine 
to-morrow, if he has !” 

Her words were careless enough, but her eyes had a quick 
bright look of fear in them that reminded him somehow of a 


THE SHADOW DEEPENS 


159 


snared bird’s. In every nerve she feared her father, his 
power, his cruelty, his violence. The bitter lash of his 
tongue. His complete dominion over her. Would he force 
her into this marriage? Had it been of his own planning? 

“Don’t be a funk-stick,” said Eustace, encouragingly. 

“I’m a coward, Eustie. Perhaps I’d better marry Mr. 
Soames, after all!” 

“It’ud be simply rotten, marrying someone you don’t love,” 
he observed, going back to the fire and throwing away the 
damp end of his cigarette. 

As he spoke, a vision of Nella Tresham rose up before him. 
The loveliness of her . . . 

“Yes. Look at Mummie,” said Vicky, daringly. 

She had never made this suggestion to anyone before. It 
startled and bewildered Eustace. 

“Oh, Mum’s all right,” he assured her. 

“She isn’t! She’s just a slave to all his whims and tan¬ 
trums ! Just as much a slave as we are. Only she couldn’t 
escape if she wanted to.” 

“But she doesn’t want to. I’m practically certain of that. 
She’s devoted to him—even if sometimes he makes her suffer 
through us.” 

“She sent for me to-night before dinner and told me why 
Mr. Soames was coming,” Vicky said; “she was frightfully 
sweet to me. She thought I’d better know beforehand that 
he wanted to marry me. She’d never talked to me like that 
before, Eustie—just as if I were terribly dear to her. It 
made me want to kneel at her feet.” 

“She couldn’t have wished for it?” he hazarded. 

“No. But she told me that Dad did.” 

“I’m glad she’s on your side.” 

“Yes. I’d never felt sure of it before.” 

“By the way, Vicky, what did you think of all that story 
Soames told us to-night at dinner?” 

“Told us?” Her thoughts were still too full of that inter¬ 
view she had had with him in the green drawing room; it 
seemed to have blotted out all lesser happenings. 


160 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

“ I mean about the chapel—where the lamp burned for five 
hundred years. Rather wonderful that!” 

“And now we’ve made it into a ballroom,” observed Vicky, 
scathingly. “To tell you the truth, Eustie, it made me feel a 
little bit ashamed.” 

“Did it ?” He gave her a long close look. “I’m glad it did. 
It seems rather like sacrilege, and yet I suppose it wasn’t 
really. Everything belonging to the chapel—that made it 
what it was—must have been removed long before. Before 
we ever came here.” 

His deep-set eyes burned with a strange fire. 

“Let’s go down there,” suggested Vicky. 

“Yes, let’s.” 

2 

They took a little electric torch and went down the few 
steps that led into a long passage. The whole house was 
hushed into a deep stillness. Probably Lady Pendre had gone 
to bed, and Pamela also. Lord Pendre generally sat up in his 
study to a very late hour, finishing the work left undone dur¬ 
ing the day. But his room was at the other end of the house; 
they would be little likely to disturb him. 

They came at last to a narrow steep staircase. It was un¬ 
carpeted, and the boards creaked beneath their footsteps, al¬ 
most protestingly. At the foot of this they entered upon the 
long wide little-used passage leading directly into the ball¬ 
room, which formed, as it were, a wing to itself. It had no 
rooms above it, but beyond it were two small ante-rooms 
which had probably been used in old days as a sacristy, and 
perhaps a priest’s bedroom. There was also a door opening 
into the garden, probably for the use of the public who had 
come thither to worship, and to obviate the necessity of their 
going through the main building in order to reach the church. 

Eustace and Vicky drew back the great bolts and opened 
the door. They switched on the electric light to obtain a bet¬ 
ter view of the magnificent room with its splendid carved 
ceiling, its shining parquet floor. Around the walls, delicately 


THE SHADOW DEEPENS 


161 


paneled now with carved gilt woodwork and gold damask 
silk, innumerable chairs and a few settees were somewhat 
formally arranged. 

At the far end was a slightly raised platform, the floor of 
which was of finest parquet like that of the rest of the room. 
It was there, beyond a doubt, that the Altar had once stood 
through those long centuries of Catholic worship; it was there 
too, suspended from the delicately carved ceiling that the 
Lamp must have hung, burning before the Holy of 
Holies. . . . 

Eustace went forward, not impulsively, but as if some 
superior force were driving him, against his own will and 
better judgment. He walked up to the first step of the raised 
platform—there were three in all—and knelt down. He did 
not pray, but his action was intended; he was making a word¬ 
less act of reparation. And as he knelt there a passionate 
longing to re-light that lamp, to fill the place again with the 
fragrant smoke of incense, to hear the solemn music, above all 
to watch the priest as he raised the Host once more before 
the kneeling throng of worshipers, came over him. He had 
only once been present at Mass, and that was many years 
before, when he was quite a little boy and his father had 
taken him with Phip and Barbara across to France for a few 
days. They had visited an ancient Gothic cathedral at an 
hour when High Mass was being sung, and he had purposely 
waited behind the others to watch what was going on. He 
had never forgotten it, nor the strange shining of the Host, 
that had seemed to gather to Itself all the light of that dim 
old cathedral. And then suddenly his father, perceiving his 
absence, had returned and dragged him quite angrily away. 
But because of that far-off unforgotten episode Eustace knew 
what would happen if Mass were to be said there once more. 
There would be lamps and incense, and music, and that mystic 
Host with Its wonderful limpid radiance that seemed to 
gather all lesser lights unto Itself . . . 

As he knelt there he thought, too, of all the prayers and 
petitions that must have been uttered within those walls, all 
the entreaties, the thanksgivings, and that pure worship, too, 


162 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


that is known to theologians as the Prayer of Quiet, when 
the soul is in some sense released from the fret of human 
flesh and goes a little nearer to the Eternal in mystical flight. 

He thought of the good people, the pious people, who had 
lived at Pendre through those five centuries, their habits and 
customs changing with the times, but their faith knowing no 
shadow of alteration. Their never-failing faith, their daily 
gathering perhaps before the Altar that had stood so near to 
where he was kneeling now! ... It had all been swept ruth¬ 
lessly away. But at that moment he felt that something of 
it did remain, informing and illuminating the place with a 
reflection of its ancient sanctity. 

He rose at last and went toward Vicky, who was kneeling 
at the other end of the room near the door, her elbows placed 
upon a chair, her face hidden in her hands. He could only 
see the bowed, brown head with its dark mass of glossy hair 
brushed so closely. And as he looked at her, he felt a sudden 
almost intolerable pity for her. She must not marry Soames. 
He was conscious of a fierce indignation against his father 
because he had obviously encouraged the man in his wish to 
marry Vicky. It was a preposterous thought to try and ar¬ 
range a marriage between them. If Vicky married, her hus¬ 
band must be of an age and disposition to give her every 
chance of happiness. 

And his mother—what did she think of it ? What thoughts 
had filled her mind to-night, while her lovely face was bend¬ 
ing meditatively above the cards in which she was apparently 
so absorbed? But she could not possibly carry her habitual 
cold and aloof detachment to the point of seeing her own 
child sacrificed, without making the slightest effort to save 
her from a fate that could only be productive of misery. She 
could not yield submissively to her husband’s will in such a 
matter as this. 

And suddenly, irrelevantly, he thought of those words, 
surely of deep and tragic remorse, which she had permitted 
to escape her in the hour when she had first learned of her 
son’s death. It zvas I zvho killed him. . . . Eustace did not 
attempt to probe the inner meaning of those words, wrung 


THE SHADOW DEEPENS 163 

from her by the sharpness of her suffering. He even shrank 
from analyzing them too closely. But they taught him that 
his mother must at some time or other, previous to that hour, 
have suffered very severely; she had blamed herself bitterly 
for something she had done or left undone. There must have 
been something wanting even in her tender love for Philip. 
But what it was—what she had done to slay him, body or 
soul—Eustace could hazard no guess. Indeed he preferred 
not to think about it. It seemed part of the mystery, the 
shadow. . . . 

He walked softly up and down the long length of the room, 
his feet making little sound on the polished floor. The place 
seemed to him full of haunting presences, of reproachful 
ghosts. When he again reached Vicky’s kneeling figure, he 
stopped as if half afraid to disturb her. She too was sen¬ 
sitive—she could hardly be unaware of the atmosphere that 
still informed the place. Then he saw, to his consternation, 
that her shoulders were shaking convulsively. She was cry¬ 
ing. Deep suppressed sobs shook her slight frame, 
agonizingly. 

“Vicky—Vicky darling—come up to bed,” he whispered, 
soothingly. 

He felt now that it was a mistake to have brought her 
hither to-night, in her over-wrought, excited condition. 

She raised her face, wet and stained with tears. 

“They were happier than we are, those Chittendens,” she 
said, in a choked voice. “They had—God. And we have 
only the shadow.” 

The shadow. . . . 

There was a kind of despair in her voice, that filled Eustace 
with a curious morbid sense of uneasiness. 

They had God ... we have only the shadow. . . . 

She rose to her feet. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes 
were bright with fear. They stood face to face, almost 
horror-stricken. 

“It isn’t only because the lamp has been extinguished,” she 
whispered. “It’s something far worse than that. Some 
deliberate insult offered. One of us,” her voice dropped, al- 


164 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


most as if she were afraid of being overheard by those 
invisible, reproachful presences—“one of us must be fighting 
against God. ...” 

Eustace made a gigantic effort not to permit himself to be 
influenced by her words. Her thoughts were, as his mother 
had said, often wildly, morbidly imaginative. He knew, too, 
that he ought to have checked them. But he had no word of 
comfort to offer. What she felt, he was feeling, only perhaps 
more definitely, more emphatically. There was something, 
and in their helpless endeavor to discover its nature, they 
seemed to be beating their pigmy ineffectual hands against a 
barrier of formless, invisible, but substantial quality. . . . 
Something that in its very strength resisted them. 

3 

He put his arm round his sister, switched off the electric 
light, and with the aid of the torch groped his way out of 
the room. She seemed to follow him quite mechanically, as, 
after locking and bolting the door, he quietly led her along 
the passage up to the narrow uncarpeted stairs. He re¬ 
proached himself for having encouraged her in the expedition 
at such a moment. Her mood, sensitive and attuned to new 
impressions, had made her react almost violently to the atmos¬ 
phere of the chapel. And it had made her suffer, just as it 
had made him suffer. 

He did not leave her until she was perfectly calm and in¬ 
clined to be sleepy. Then he kissed her good-night and went 
to his own room. For a long time he sat there in deepest 
thought, trying vainly to unravel the mystery. But it was 
without clue; no ray of light penetrated across its darkness. 

They had God. . . . Vicky’s speech rang uncomfortably in 
his ears. But it was quite true. Something had passed away 
from Pendre, something of perdurable beauty and sanctity. 
And perhaps the very stones were crying out, in dismay and 
reproach. The ballroom was surely symbolic of the change 
that had overtaken the old house. But to Eustace the meta¬ 
morphosis held a far deeper significance. When he recalled 


THE SHADOW DEEPENS 165 

his father’s angry words at dinner, he could not believe that 
the change had been accomplished in a spirit of careless 
ignorance. Perhaps there had been mixed up with it the in¬ 
tention to insult deliberately all that had gone before. An 
insult, determined and premeditated, offered to the Catholic 
Church, of which the chapel at Pendre was only a small and 
humble adjunct. 

Mingled with Lord Pendre’s contempt and unbelief there 
was also a measure of hatred. Hatred . . . but based upon 
what? To this question there seemed to be no adequate 
answer; it only formed perhaps part of the mystery whose 
shadow enveloped Pendre. 

Eustace opened his window and looked out upon the still, 
starry night. The fields were pale in the moonlight, and the 
sea beyond was faintly touched to polished argent. He could 
hear its rhythmic, sustained beating, like a mighty pulse. 

“If I ever inherit Pendre,” he said aloud, “whether I’m a 
Catholic or not, I shall have a chapel here. And if they’ll 
let me I’ll light the lamp again ...” 

His lips closed firmly upon the words, and his whole face 
was set and stern with resolution. 

He remembered the impression he had had so strongly on 
the evening of his return—that Pendre was asking something 
of him. Perhaps it was just this thing. . . . Perhaps he would 
not be permitted to escape all responsibility, to surrender his 
birthright. Pendre was pleading to him for the revival of 
that spiritual life that once had pulsed within its walls. 

There would be no space for shadows, surely, when the 
All Holy was once more beneath the roof at Pendre. 

4 

Vicky passed a restless night, and when she awoke on the 
following morning it was with a sense of impending disaster, 
that seemed to have both informed and emanated from her 
uneasy dreams. 

Of course there would be a scene about Ernest Soames— 
that was her first thought. Her father wouldn’t be likely to 


166 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


let the matter rest there. He would use every effort to bring 
her to reason. She would require all her courage to resist 
him. And it was unlikely that such an interview would end 
without some mention of Martin’s name. She would have 
to hear once more Lord Pendre’s exact opinion of him. 

Of course, she could rely upon Eustace’ support; he was 
as definitely opposed to the marriage as she was. Her mother 
was perhaps little likely to offer her any sensible assistance. 
She had never in her life taken her children’s part against 
her husband; it was improbable that she would do so now. 
Still, it was something to feel certain that she, too, disliked 
the idea. . . . 

Vicky dressed herself and went down to breakfast. Her 
face was pale, and her eyes were rimmed with dark purple 
stains; she still bore the traces of those violent and successive 
emotions to which she had been the prey last night. That 
touching scene with her mother—the interview with Mr. 
Soames—those terrible moments in the ballroom with Eustace! 
. . . She felt that they were imprinted upon her heart so 
sharply that they had left her raw and wounded. 

When she entered the dining-room her father and mother 
and Pamela were already seated at the table. Eustace had 
not as yet appeared. Since his return home he had been 
granted a certain indulgence about coming down in the morn¬ 
ing, for it was considered that he was in need of additional 
rest. Lord Pendre was extremely particular about punctuality 
at breakfast, and indeed at all meals. He disliked any sug¬ 
gestion of slackness, and there was nothing quite so slack as 
the habit of getting up late. He had never been slack him¬ 
self, and to this he attributed his continually increasing pros¬ 
perity and success. 

It was also distinctly understood that this latitude accorded 
to Eustace was only to be of temporary duration. Already 
his father was beginning to wonder whether he wasn’t taking 
advantage of what had been intended only as a brief privilege. 
. . . But whenever he considered this matter of Eustace, 
Lord Pendre felt aggrieved. A few months’ holiday to be 
spent in travel, he should have if necessary, and after that 


THE SHADOW DEEPENS 


167 


he must be made to see that his future prospects depended 
entirely upon his own exertions. Philip’s post in the great 
engineering works of Wingrave and Co., was waiting for 
him, and if he did not prove to be an utter fool he would 
certainly avail himself of the opportunity it offered. 

But there it was—! He could never regard Eustace with 
the smallest sense of security. There was something elusive 
about him—you could never pin him down. He was dis¬ 
satisfied, discontented, and he had come back from the War 
worse in these respects than when he went. All this talk 
of freedom—of not caring for money! But as long as his 
children were living under his roof, enjoying all that it could 
offer of comfort and luxury, Lord Pendre was resolved that 
they should obey him. No one had their material welfare so 
deeply at heart as he had, he could truthfully assure himself. 
And it seemed so little to ask in return for all that he was 
able to give them, that they should submit to his will in ex¬ 
terior things. Nothing unjust or arbitrary about that! In 
the old days—which he frankly regretted—parents extorted 
submission because they were parents and for no other reason. 
But times had changed—in the last fifty years they had 
changed very much for the worse. And in the last decade 
the process had become alarming, viewed from the parents’ 
standpoint. Children were beginning to demand things as 
their right. Girls too as well as boys. He had always known 
what this giving of the vote to women would lead to. . . . 

It was at this unfortunate point in his morning meditation 
that Vicky entered the room. Her pale worn face had a 
sullen and defiant expression, as if she were prepared for the 
remonstrance that surely awaited her. This annoyed Lord 
Pendre, who expected to be greeted with cheery affection by 
his children, no matter what happened. 

Vicky said good-morning, kissed both her parents a trifle 
perfunctorily, nodded carelessly to Pamela, and took her seat 
at the table. 

Although she was at least five minutes late, nothing had 
been said. That meant that Lord Pendre was storing up all 
his eloquence for the scene that must presently follow. His 


168 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


brow was black as a thunder-cloud; it was strange that when 
he was angry he looked always so much darker and more 
swarthy than he did at other times. 

What had Soames said to him? He had not seemed very 
easy to convince, and he might well have considered her reply 
as by no means final. Too young to know her own mind! 
Nor was Lord Pendre one to be easily persuaded that a game 
he had set his heart upon winning was lost. 

When he looked at her his exasperation rapidly increased. 
That mixture of defiant audacity and servile fear that char¬ 
acterized her attitude toward him invariably aroused the bully 
within him. Well, she had still to learn that he intended this 
marriage should take place. The cons she might seek for her¬ 
self, the pros she would learn from his lips before the day 
was much older. A little slip of a thing like that to defy 
him! But although she had often defied him in the course of 
her short life, he had always ultimately been able to secure 
her submission. She had had, it is true, that fierce passionate 
nature which often bestows upon a child a fictitious courage, 
combined with an indifference to consequences, apparently 
foolhardy. He could remember her almost like a little Ismael 
in her nursery days, her hand against everyone. And although 
with the passing of years she had grown more subdued and 
timid and outwardly amenable, the defiant passionate spirit 
was still there, ready at any moment to manifest itself in an 
endeavor to thwart his pet projects. . . . 

“When you've finished your breakfast come into the study, 
Vicky. I wish to speak to you,” he said, rising from his 
seat. In his great powerful hands, with their coarse spatulate 
fingers, he carried a local newspaper and a great heap of 
still unopened letters. 

“Very well, Dad,” she answered, in a subdued nervous tone. 

Pamela, sitting opposite to her, gave her a glance in which 
envy and a certain triumph were subtly intermingled. 

She was still in ignorance as to last night's happenings, but 
she had arrived within measurable distance of the truth. She 
had not been blind, for instance, to that private talk Vicky 
had had with Ernest Soames after dinner in the green draw- 


THE SHADOW DEEPENS 


169 


ing-room. And Vicky had presently slipped away by another 
door, leaving him discourteously alone. There must have 
been some reason for that. When he had rejoined them, tak¬ 
ing Eustace' place at the bridge-table, he had seemed com¬ 
pletely abstracted and ill at ease, like a man upon whom some 
dire and unexpected misfortune has recently descended. 

It had compelled Pamela to face the unwelcome truth 
Soames had proposed to Vicky and had been refused. Noth¬ 
ing else could possibly account for the fact that he revoked 
three times in the course of the evening, for normally he was 
a sound if not a brilliant player. Pamela had had her own 
conjectures on the subjects of his increasedly frequent visits 
to Pendre, and now that she saw her error she felt annoyed 
with Vicky for having flung aside this prize carelessly, with 
such disdain. Not for the third time would Mr. Soames be 
likely to seek a bride at Pendre. . . . 

Pamela was not in the least degree in love with him; she 
would have greatly preferred to marry Eustace Wingrave, 
and she felt convinced that such a marriage would have had 
the full approbation of his father if not of his mother. Be¬ 
sides, it was what everyone had been expecting. But Eustace, 
during his few weeks at home, had not only shown himself 
perfectly indifferent to her, but had also consistently avoided 
her as if he was obscurely aware of all that was passing in 
their minds and was determined to frustrate such extravagant 
hopes. Pamela had felt the situation to be a little humiliating. 
It was aggravated by the antagonism of Vicky. Sometimes 
she had even felt that Vicky was influencing Eustace against 
her. Since Barbara’s departure, Eustace and Vicky had been 
practically inseparable. Pamela had not hitherto realized this 
immense devotion, and it annoyed her, for she felt that the 
powerful alliance was in some sense arrayed against herself. 
It had made her turn her thoughts with a new resolution 
toward Moth Hill. She had always liked Soames, had found 
him kindly and sympathetic, and sometimes she had thought, 
too, that he was beginning to like her and would probably end 
by ’inviting her to be his wife. Moth Hill was a very de¬ 
sirable property, and in marrying Soames, Pamela felt that 


170 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


she would have regained much that she had forfeited at 
Philip’s death. Always ambitious, she was inclined to use 
her loss as a stepping-stone if not to higher things, at any 
rate to those not too far below them in such matters as wealth 
and position. It gave her, as she was aware, a certain value 
and significance. 

But to see Soames snatched away before her very eyes by 
that silly and despicable child, Vicky, was altogether too bitter 
a pill for her to swallow. Last night she had almost decided 
to go home on a visit—-it was such a long time since she had 
seen her father. He was an absent-minded scholar, who, 
however, never noticed whether she were in the house or not. 
He was wont to spend his days either in his study, poring 
over musty books, or in his laboratory, making strange ex¬ 
periments—of what nature no one knew. There were such 
hordes of children too—lanky girls and insolent rough boys. 
Pamela shuddered at the prospect. The little narrow house in 
West Kensington, with its soot-blackened garden forming a 
strip back and front of the building, was by no means a 
delectable abode, and after the luxury of Pendre she felt that 
she could endure it with less fortitude even than of old. 

Her father was a man of distinguished family, and her 
mother had been a daughter of the late Sir Somerville Mason, 
a noted parliamentarian of the mid-Victorian epoch. But at 
her death, Mr. Webb had felt the urgent need of a house¬ 
keeper, someone to look after things, to direct the servants, 
and procure him immunity from domestic disturbances, and 
he had married a woman, who, he felt, could safely be en¬ 
trusted with these simple tasks. But the profusion of chil¬ 
dren—the two eldest were twin girls—had rendered Mrs. 
Webb’s existence a by no means easy one, given the restricted 
nature of her husband’s income, and his firm refusal to leave 
the house in West Kensington for a more spacious abode. 
In the struggle that had ensued, Pamela had found herself 
more and more neglected, and a tacit antagonism sprang up 
between her and her stepmother and the children, that claimed 
all her care and attention. Fortunately when she was about 
seventeen, Lady Farrant, a rich and prosperous sister of the 


THE SHADOW DEEPENS 


171 


late Sir Somerville remembered her great-niece’s existence 
and rescued her from what seemed to her, highly undesirable 
surroundings. Mr. Webb acquiesced in the plan without 
demur; he only wished that it had been possible for the twins 
to go too. But Lady Farrant’s philanthropy did not extend 
further than Pamela, and it was under her irreproachable 
aegis that the girl had first met Philip Wingrave. She had 
died during the War, surviving Philip but a short time; still, 
she felt happy about Pamela, being satisfied that the Pendres 
had in a sense adopted her. 

5 

While Pamela was thus sullenly considering the feasibility 
of a descent upon the only house she had a right to enter, 
Lady Pendre turned to Vicky and said nervously: 

“I really think you’d better not keep your father waiting 
much longer—he won’t like it, and I know he’s very busy 
to-day.” 

Vicky had been lingering purposely over her breakfast, 
sipping her coffee and crumbling her toast, with an evident’ 
desire to postpone the unpleasant interview for as long at 
possible. She was not in the least hungry—-indeed there wa* 
a lump in her throat that made it almost impossible for her to 
swallow, a legacy of last night’s emotion and weeping. 

She rose at last with a face of stone. Her mother wa* 
right—it was worse than useless to keep him waiting. She 
went slowly out of the room, and Lady Pendre s eyes followed 
her wistfully. 

Pamela ventured to say: 

“What on earth’s the matter with Vicky ?” 

She often felt how perfect it would be at Pendre without 
Vicky, her temper, her tendency to sulk. 

Lady Pendre waited for a moment and then said: 

“Ernest Soames asked her to marry him last night. She— 
she refused him.” 

Her dark eyes rested full upon Pamela’s face. She had 
wanted an opportunity for informing her of the event, having 


172 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


been intuitively aware of the trend of the girl's hopes, which 
she had even been conscious at one time of sharing. 

It was kinder to let her know the truth as soon as possible. 
Pamela’s face, however, was very calm, and gave no hint of 
disappointment. Only it became more and more clear to her 
that she was wasting her time, the precious years of youth, 
here at Pendre. . . . 

“My husband is very anxious for the marriage to take 
place,” pursued Lady Pendre. “Mr. Soames, it seems, spoke 
to him last week. I didn’t think myself he would have much 
chance—Vicky is such a child.” 

“And then she’s in love with Martin Sedgwick,” observed 
Miss Webb. “Fa will never give his consent to that. Still, 
Mr. Soames is ever so much too old for her—I don’t think 
he could have made a more unsuitable choice. She is such a 
child, as you say—hardly out of the schoolroom—and young 
for her years.” 

“In some ways, not in all,” Lady Pendre corrected gently. 

“Perhaps Fa will be able to make her see the error of her 
ways,” said Pamela, with a little laugh. “What does Eustace 
think of it ?” 

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to him about it. But I’m 
quite sure he wouldn’t like the idea—he’d think as I do, that 
there’s far too great a disparity between their ages. Twenty- 
two years at least, perhaps a year or two more. Ernest is 
over forty.” 

Pamela wondered why “Fa” hadn’t told her about the af¬ 
fair. It showed a slight lack of confidence, for she was pleas¬ 
antly aware that he did discuss most things with her, and 
even paid her the compliment of listening courteously to her 
opinion or advice. But perhaps he had discerned the fact 
that she was Vicky’s unconscious rival, and had not liked to 
give this damaging touch to her secret hopes. This explana¬ 
tion wounded Pamela’s pride sharply. Her wish to marry 
Soames was utterly untinged by any sentimentality; it was 
actuated by pure worldly ambition. 

Lady Pendre sat there nervously, wishing that Eustace 
woiild come down. She did not dare go into the study, for 


THE SHADOW DEEPENS 


173 


her husband had told her that he wished to talk to Vicky 
quite alone. She wondered what he was saying to her—how 
he was saying it. His anger always terrified the girl. Lady 
Pendre sometimes thought that the violence he had used 
toward her as a little child had permanently affected her 
nerves. 

Eustace came into the room. 

“Good-morning, Mother. Good-morning, Pamela. Where’s 
Vicky ?” 

“She’s finished her breakfast. Your father’s talking to her 
in the study.” 

“Whew-w,” the sound escaped from his pursed lips. “Why 
aren’t you there too, then, Mother darling, to look after your 
little daughter’s interests?” 

His tone was mocking, but his eyes were very serious, and 
as they rested upon her face, Lady Pendre fancied that they 
held their old accusing, condemnatory look. 

“He didn’t want me to be there. He wished to see her 
quite alone.” 

Pamela looked at him reproachfully. 

“You speak as if Fa were bullying Vicky when he’s only 
thinking of her—her welfare.” 

“I expect you know Fa better than I do, Pamela,” Eustace 
assured her, gravely. 

“Well, you can hardly deny that Vicky’s been awfully 
troublesome lately.” 

“I admit it’s most unreasonable of her to want to marry a 
man she really cares for, and to refuse to marry one she 
doesn’t even pretend to like. If shed had half an eye to the 
main chance, she would have jumped at Soames offer. 
There was a morose irony in his tone. 

Lady Pendre looked imploringly from one to the other. 
They seemed armed for conflict this morning. 

“Do please go to Vicky, Mother,” said Eustace, growing 
nervous. 

When he had crossed the hall just now he had heard a loud 
angry voice emanating from his father’s study. Probably the 
secretary or agent had done something to offend—-Lord 


174 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Pendre never passed over the least slip in silence. If you 
did, he was wont to allege, you would never get efficiency 
from those who served you. But now that Eustace knew 
Vicky was the object of his present wrath, he felt that he 
could bear it no longer. 

Lady Pendre made a slight movement as if to rise, then 
thinking better of it she allowed the impulse to pass. Eustace 
was exasperated by his mother’s timidity. Why didn’t she go 
and insist upon defending her own child? Why did she con¬ 
tinue to sit there, pale, immovable, detached, just as if she 
had no right to interfere ? . . . 

He rose abruptly from his seat. “For if you don’t, I must !” 
he exclaimed, with angry determination. “It really isn’t fair 
to Vicky!” 

He made a swift movement toward the door. But before 
he could reach it his mother stopped him. 

“No dear,” she said with unusual resolution, “you’d only 
make things worse. I’ll go myself.” 

He held the door open while she passed out. He saw her 
cross the hall with slow, firm tread and disappear into the 
study. 

Then he closed the door and returned to his seat, going on 
with his breakfast as if nothing had happened. 

He wished that Pamela would go away. There she sat, 
not speaking, secretly condemning him. Of course she was 
beautiful with her white face—the warm whiteness of a mag¬ 
nolia bloom not the pallor of anaemia,—the gold of her hair, 
her fine dark blue eyes. Having so much, why could she not 
leave poor Vicky alone? There was really no need for any¬ 
one as beautiful as that to be jealous. 

“Why did you encourage Lady Pendre to go?” she said 
presently. “Fa knows exactly how to deal with Vicky—he’s 
had lots of experience during the past seventeen years. I’m 
sure she was difficult to manage even in her cradle.” 

Eustace’ glance was keen; it seemed to pierce her. His 
answer flicked her like a whip. 

“I always wonder what Vicky can possibly have done to 
you, Pamela ?” he said coolly. 


THE SHADOW DEEPENS 175 

Their eyes met, full of challenge, as if now they were 
acknowledged combatants. 

Pamela did not reply; she rose hastily and went out of the 
room. She wanted to escape from that cool glance that 
seemed to read the secrets of her heart—-that voice that 
scourged her with its deliberate irony. 


CHAPTER X 


Conflict 

1 

I ORD PENDRE was in one of his fierce white-hot rages 
that had always hitherto had the effect of terrifying 
Vicky into yielding to any or all of his wishes. But this 
morning she found that issues of a far wider and greater 
importance than any mere wish for renewed peace were in¬ 
volved. And never had Martin meant so much to her. It 
is true that during the last eighteen months she had only seen 
him once for a very brief period, while her original affection 
for him had owed its existence to a kind of childish hero- 
worship, still he represented unalterably a type and standard 
by which other men could be measured, and found wanting. 

Only to picture him side by side with Soames, sufficed to 
reduce the latter’s claim to consideration to vanishing-point. 
And something, too, in Martin’s so recently avowed love 
seemed to support her now and give her a new courage. 

If she had been convinced last night that in no circum¬ 
stances could she marry Soames, she was doubly certain this 
morning of the impossibility of so doing. She didn’t even 
like him, and now she felt something almost akin to hatred 
of him because he had brought this trouble upon her. 

“So you had the impertinence to tell Soames last night that 
you wouldn’t marry him?” was Lord Pendre’s first question 
as she entered the study that morning. 

Vicky, in a very short serge skirt, a brilliant jumper that 
made her body look more skimpy and childish than usual, and 
with her dark bobbed hair, seemed to have shed at least three 
of her eighteen years. 


176 


CONFLICT 


177 


“Yes, Dad.” Her voice was steady. After all, they couldn’t 
force her into this marriage. Things like that couldn't hap¬ 
pen. . . . 

He gazed at her scornfully. 

“It doesn’t signify, however,” he continued. “I can easily 
explain it to him. I wish this marriage to take place.” He 
stared at her with his hard black compelling eyes, that almost 
hypnotized her into unwilling submission. 

Vicky’s courage seemed to diminish. When he said: “I 
wish this marriage to take place,” her heart sank into her 
boots. She hated scenes, although when she was a child she 
had sometimes deliberately provoked them for the dreadful 
excitement they gave her, but now they only terrified and 
exhausted her. 

She had always ultimately obeyed her father. His methods 
of coercion could be almost beyond human resistance. His 
coarse, cruel hands had often in the past struck her to the 
earth; she could seldom look at them now without remem¬ 
bering their fierce power; the very sight and touch of them 
made her flesh shrink in fear. 

If only her mother or Eustace would come int6 the 
room! . . . 

“I’m not going to marry him,” she said, with sudden 
decision. “I don’t like him. I’m not going to marry anyone 
for ages—you can tell him that. But when I do, it won’t 
be Mr. Soames.” 

“You are talking like a baby. Soames has fifteen thousand 
a year. Possibly even more. You’ve no right to refuse such 
an offer as that.” 

“Barbara wouldn’t have him. Why should I ?” Vicky raised 
large, innocent, rather reproachful, eyes to her father’s face. 
“Of course, I do see you’d think it would be a perfectly 
splendid thing for me to be Mrs. Soames.” Some hint of her 
old audacity was visible now, although her lips trembled. “To 
live at Moth Hill and have all that money! But I hate money 
—I don’t want it. Nor does Eustie!” She flung the words 
at her father with a dreadful defiance. 

“You have always been perverse. But I think you would 


178 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


both speak rather differently if you were to try poverty for a 
few months. You’ve never had to do without anything in 
your life.” 

“Eustie has, though, and it made no difference to him.” 

Lord Pendre’s wrath was beginning to rise at this exhibi¬ 
tion of cool impertinence, but so far he had himself pretty 
well in hand. 

“You’re never likely to have such a chance as that again. 
Men with fifteen thousand a year aren’t to be met with every¬ 
day, I can tell you. And personally I’ve a great regard for 
Soames. He’ll make you an excellent husband—if anyone can 
keep you in order, he will!” 

“I’m not surprised at your liking him—he’s much nearer 
your age than he is mine,” replied Vicky. “And then there 
are lots of ways in which you’re terribly alike!” 

Lord Pendre was aware that no compliment was intended 
either to himself or to the absent Soames. He longed to box 
his daughter’s ears soundly for that piece of cheek. 

“Anyhow, I mean to choose my own husband, and it won’t 
be Ernest Soames!” she declared now with vehemence. 

She was flushed, nervous and excited. Painfully afraid of 
him, too, across all that surface defiance. 

“If you’re thinking of Sedgwick—!” he stormed. 

“Well, I am, if you want to know!” 

“You shall never see him again. You shall marry Soames 
this summer. I mean to be obeyed.” He raised his voice 
angrily. 

“I’ll run away from home first,” cried Vicky. 

He advanced threateningly. “Don’t let me hear any d-d 

folly of that kind or I’ll have you watched night and day!” 

Subconsciously she believed that he would win the day. He 
had always come off victor in their many conflicts, and the 
smart of those remembered past defeats diminished her cour¬ 
age now. Was it any use opposing him? He looked so 
formidably strong with those great shoulders, those massive 
limbs, those cruel powerful hands. His face was thunderously 
black, and the broad black brows met in a straight line across 
his forehead. 


CONFLICT 


179 


Suddenly, to his dismay, she broke down and began to weep. 
It was a long time since he had seen her in tears, but the 
sight only served still further to irritate him. 

“Don’t cry—it’s absurd at your age to behave like a baby. 
Run away from home indeed! You wouldn’t like it much 
when you were found and brought back, I can tell you! You 
seem to forget that you’re eighteen—I shall forget it myself 
in another moment, and treat you as if you were the baby 
you pretend to be!” 

She clutched at the nearest table, sobbing and trembling. 
The menace in his look, in his words, terrified her. 

“In this matter I’m going to insist upon your obeying me. 

I know best what’s for your good. I’m not going to let you 
throw away the best chance of a desirable settlement you’re 
ever likely to have, just for a childish whim! I shall write 
to Soames this morning.” 

“It’s no use your writing to him—I shall send a note by 
Eustie to tell him that he isn’t to believe one word you say.” 

Mutiny crimsoned her face—she looked strangely alive. 
Lord Pendre advanced toward her with uplifted hand. She 
shrank away from him, closing her eyes so that she might 
not watch the blow fall. She clenched her hands, awaiting 
it. . . . 

It was at this critical moment that her mother came into 
the room. Lord Pendre’s arm dropped to his side. Vicky 
looked up, scarcely able to believe that salvation had come 
thus in the nick of time. She gave a great audible sob of 
relief. ... 

Lady Pendre advanced a step or two into the room, and 
stood there watching them. In her plain black morning dress 
she looked very tall and slender. Her eyes were fixed upon 
Vicky, pale, trembling, defeated. Perhaps this would be the 
last of these ceaseless duels between the father and daughter. 
Never had two people understood each other so little, and 
indeed made so little effort to understand each other. 

Lady Pendre had suffered many things at the hands of her 
own father; she had endured anxiety and humiliation on his 
account, but she had never been unmindful of his good points, 


180 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


and she had always regarded him as a friend. A friend who 
might strain her loyalty to breaking-point, but still a friend. 
Sometimes, too, he had been more like a loving, dependent 
remorseful child than a father. But to his weak rather dis¬ 
solute nature cruelty had been unknown. 

Vicky crept a step nearer to her mother. 

“Girls don’t marry in these days unless they want to,” she 
said, drying her eyes and gaining a fresh access of courage 
from Lady Pendre’s welcome and unexpected presence. “I’m 
sure when Mummie married you, she didn’t do it because her 
father told her to!” She turned appealingly to her mother. 
“Did you, Mummie ?” she asked. 

There was a dead silence, the more emphatic because just 
a moment before, the room had seemed so filled with shrill 
and angry sounds. And during that silence Vicky was aware 
that she had both hurt and wounded her mother, that she 
had touched perhaps some ancient sore. 

Lady Pendre winced slightly, and then walked across to the 
window, so that now her back was turned to both the protag¬ 
onists. She held herself very still and said nothing. But the 
girl was insistent. She broke past her father, who tried to 
seize and detain her, and ran up to her mother with an eager 
confidence, born perhaps of that new worshiping love. “Did 
you? You must tell me! . . 

Then she felt herself roughly and violently seized with 
brutal strength. Lord Pendre gripped her arm with a hand 
that was like an iron vise. He flung her savagely aside. She 
lost her balance and fell against a table, slipping to the ground. 
There was a little wound in her forehead where her head 
had struck the sharp point of the table. For a moment she 
could hardly see for pain, the room seemed full of tiny dia¬ 
mond-like sparks of dazzling light. The suddenness and 
violence of his gesture had deprived her of all means of re¬ 
sistance. She struggled to her feet somehow, her hand pressed 
to her head, the blood trickling down in a thin stream between 
her fingers. 

She stood there pale, trembling, bewildered, more afraid 
of him than she had ever been. Yet, what had she done to 


CONFLICT 181 

deserve this fierce attack? What had she said to provoke him 
to this extremity of violence? 

“How dare you ask your mother such a question as that? 
How dare you ?” His face, almost livid with fury, was close 
to hers; his self-control had utterly broken down. “I forbid 
you to speak like that! Do you hear me ?” 

She was far too much cowed and terrified to answer 
him. But dimly, through all the fear and pain, she knew 
that she had inadvertently touched upon some unpalatable 
truth. Involuntarily . . . for her question had been a mere 
arrow in the dark. Had it struck them both, piercing some 
ancient wound? Was it true, then, that her mother had been 
forced into this marriage? She had never spoken to her 
children, as happy women often will, of that first meeting 
with the man who was destined to become her husband of 
the wonderful days of their engagement, when all things had 
seemed so good and fair and full of promise . . .No, they 
had only been vaguely aware that their parents’ marriage had 
taken place abroad, very quietly, owing to Major Kelsey’s 
health. Their grandfather had not survived his daughter’s 
marriage many months. That was all they knew of the 
affair, and Vicky, like the others, had accepted her mother’s 
silence and reticence on the subject without question. Lady 
Pendre had never been in the habit of speaking of her past 
life to her children, and her reserve made approach difficult. 

She had watched the little scene with a secret anguish. 
But now, seeing the blood flow from her child s forehead, 
she ran up to her, and began to staunch the wound with her 
handkerchief. She made her lie on the sofa and put a cushion 
under her head. 

The girl was sobbing now; she was past speaking. But she 
gazed beyond her mother at her father, with terrified, hypno¬ 
tized eyes. He moved a step toward her, perhaps to ascer¬ 
tain if the wound were a deep one. But Vicky put up her 
hands before her face and shrieked hysterically. 

“No—no—let me go away—I don’t want to stay here! Let 
me go away and teach or type—I’m sure I can earn my own 
living. I shan’t be any expense—only let me go away! ’ 


182 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Beneath Lady Pendre’s skilful fingers the bleeding had 
now stopped and Vicky’s forehead was bound up. The cut 
was just above her right eyebrow. 

“Don’t be a fool!” said her father impatiently. “You’re 
going to stay here, and the sooner you come to your senses 
the better for your own sake. This is April—your marriage 
shall take place in July. That’ll give you lots of time in 
which to get accustomed to the idea and to buy your things. 
Soames knows perfectly well that what you said last night 
doesn’t count. I had a talk with him before he went away. 
He saw that you were very young and extraordinarily silly 
for your age. I must confess, though, that I never thought 
you’d do us so little credit after all we’ve spent on your 
education.” 

“Do leave her alone, Hugo. The child’s hurt,” said Lady 
Pendre, in a low, urgent tone. 

“My dear—a little bruise! That won’t hurt her—” 

“Mummie—say it isn’t true—say I needn’t marry him—” 
wept Vicky. 

Lady Pendre was silent. Once she opened her lips as if she 
were about to speak, but long habit prevailed and no words 
came. She made no response either by word or sign to her 
daughter’s passionate appeal. Her face betrayed neither 
suffering nor emotion; it was a beautiful passionless mask. 
But she continued to kneel there beside Vicky. 

“Mummie—speak to me! Tell me it isn’t true. . . 

Lady Pendre rose to her feet. 

“Vicky, darling, are you better? Do you think you could 
come up to your room?” 

“Yes—yes.” She longed to feel herself safely behind 
closed doors, away from the sight of that dark, almost livid, 
face. 

“She shall not go till I give her leave!” 

“Hugo—it’s no use tormenting her. And you have hurt 
her. You might have hurt her very much. You forget how 
strong you are—” 

She helped Vicky to her feet, and led her out of the room. 

Lord Pendre watched them, his great arms folded across 


CONFLICT 183 

his massive chest. He wondered idly, as the door closed 
behind them, what they were saying to each other. 

2 

It seemed to Vicky as she went out of the room, her hand 
still clinging desparately to her mother’s, that the shadow 
followed them, enveloping them both. And to her heated 
and morbidly active imagination it appeared that her mother 
was also aware of it, and would have placed her beyond the 
reach of it had she been able to do so. 

There was something in Lady Pendre’s silent presence 
that soothed and comforted her, giving her a sense of safety. 

Her forehead still smarted from the cut, and her head 
ached with a dull, heavy pain. Her eyes were all swollen 
and reddened with tears. If Martin could see her now! . . . 
She had a sudden longing that he should know how miser¬ 
able she was. 

Lady Pendre took her up to her room, bathed her forehead 
again with cold water, and made her lie on the bed. She 
pulled down the blinds, and then, bending over her, kissed 
her. 

“I’m very sorry, Vicky dear. I only wish you’d try not to 
irritate your father. He has a violent temper, and he doesn’t 
realize how strong he is.” 

Vicky put her two thin arms around her mother’s neck. 

“But you wouldn’t let me marry Mr. Soames, would you, 
Mummie? I know I shall run away—do something desper¬ 
ate—if he insists.” 

“I am quite, quite sure that he can’t make you marry Mr. 
Soames or anyone else if you don’t wish to. It isnt your 
duty to obey him in this, Vicky.” 

“Mummie, darling, don’t go. Stay with me.” 

“Only for a little while, then, Vicky.” 

“I feel safe when you’re there.” 

Vicky stretched out her hand and held her mother’s in a 
close, firm clasp. 

She felt thoroughly spent and exhausted, but she was quite 


184 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


calm again, that dreadful sobbing had ceased, and she was 
even able to review the terrible little scene with equanimity. 
Her father had frightened her—his loud angry voice had 
always terrified her—and at one moment she had almost 
believed in his actual power to force her into this hateful 
marriage. But now, lying there quietly with her mother’s 
hand in hers, she began to see the absurdity of her own 
fears. Eustace would never permit such a thing as that to 
happen. He would take her away from Pendre, neces¬ 
sary, out of all danger. The thought of Eustace was strangely 
comforting and reassuring. She could depend upon him 
utterly. He wasn’t afraid. . . . There was something solidly 
helpful about him. 

If only her head didn’t ache so—it prevented her from 
thinking consecutively. Eustace and Martin were all mixed 
up in her thoughts. When she thought of Eustie it was 
Martin’s face that rose up before her, fair-haired, blue-eyed, 
wonderful. . . . 

Martin wouldn’t, surely, allow her to be forced into an 
uncongenial marriage. Why, he had even been a little afraid 
of Soames—a little jealous of him. He needn’t have been. 
But perhaps he had foreseen that Soames would want to 
marry her. 

Martin . . . He was there now, coming up the hill toward 
the Pendre woods, his face flushed with exercise and excite¬ 
ment. His arms were outstretched, she was going forward 
almost blindly to feel herself clasped by them. All the rest 
of the world seemed to melt away. There were only her¬ 
self and Martin. . . . He was the incarnation of eager youth 
. . . and he loved her. 

She moved restlessly. Then presently, as her mother 
watched her, she fell asleep. 

Lady Pendre waited a little longer, then she stole noise¬ 
lessly from the room. 

3 

A light tap at the door aroused Vicky from her slumbers. 
She looked round, discovering somewhat to her alarm that 


CONFLICT 


185 


she was alone. Her mother had gone. She must have fallen 
asleep. A clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve. Why, 
it was nearly two hours since she had come up to lie down. 

“Come in,” she called. 

Eustace appeared on the threshold. He came softly toward 
her. His face fell a little as he observed her bandaged head. 
All that was visible of her face beneath the white bandage 
looked piteously small and ashen pale. 

“But, my darling Vicky—you don’t mean to tell me that 
there’s been actual bloodshed!” he said. 

Despite his light mocking tone, his deep-set eyes showed 
a gleam of fierce anger. 

“He knocked me down and I cut my forehead against the 
table,” said Vicky, succinctly. “I hope I shan’t have a beastly 
scar to remind me of his murderous wrath.” 

“I hope not, indeed.” He took a chair and sat by her 
bedside. 

“Eustie—” 

“Yes?” 

“You’d always be on my side, wouldn’t you? Even about 
Martin ?” 

“Of course I would.” 

“You’d take me away from here if it was necessary?” 

“Rather!” 

His curt voice fell on her ears like music. 

“Eustie—I do love you—better than anyone except Mum- 
mie and Martin. And I’m not sure which of you three I 
like best.” 

He was touched by this artless confidence. 

“Well, tell me, was there an awful shine?” His eyes 
twinkled beneath the pent-house brows. 

“Oh, fearful—the worst there’s ever been. Far, far worse 
than when I met Martin. I really thought he was going 
to kill me. But it’s no laughing matter, Eustie—he means 
to insist upon my marrying Ernest Soames—he won’t let me 
throw away fifteen thousand a year!” 

She was smiling now, but her voice had a queer tremor 

in it. 


186 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

“Rot!—He can’t make you,” said Eustace, with convic^ 
tion. “No one can be forced into marriage in these days. 
So you were rather a little ass to make a fuss, my dear 
child.” 

“Was I? But he always gets his own way. I know he’ll 
win in the end, you see. Perhaps I’d better give in for the 
sake of peace.” 

Eustace put his hands on her thin sharp little shoulders 
and gave her a tiny shake. 

“Vicky!” 

“Yes?” 

“You’re not to talk like that! Do you hear?” 

She roused herself with an effort. Eustace was very kind, 
very cheering and hopeful, but he didn’t realize how utterly 
tired and exhausted she was. Fatigue had produced a kind 
of hypnotic calm; he thought he had never seen her look so 
little perturbed, so resigned. 

She opened her eyes languidly. 

“When you were in the thick of the fighting, Eustie— 
perhaps when you’d been at it all day long—didn’t you ever 
feel inclined to surrender, just because you were so fright¬ 
fully tired, and you knew you must be killed or defeated in 
the end?” she asked. 

“No—I never wanted to do such a fool thing as that,” 
answered Eustace. 

“I’ve been trying to think of all the advantages I should 
have. No more rows with Dad, or being hurled almost into 
Kingdom-come as I was to-day. And I should get away from 
the shadow. ...” 

“The shadow,” he repeated. 

“Oh, it was round us all just now—Dad and Mummie and 
myself.” 

“Was it? But I’ve an idea we can’t get away from it just 
by leaving home. It might follow us. We don’t know. 
We’ve got to find out what it is first—what it stands for— 
why, it’s there.” 

“I found out one thing this morning,” said Vicky. “When 
Mummie came in I asked her if she’d been forced into 


CONFLICT 


187 


marrying Dad. Somehow it didn’t seem possible to me just 
then that anyone could want to be with him always, of their 
own free will. I felt she must have been forced into it. 
And then, Eustie—oh, it was horrible—I thought he would 
have killed me. He made me think of Heathcliff—he is 
rather like him, isn’t he? He seized me and flung me to the 
ground. I hit my head against the corner of the writing- 
table and cut it open—I could feel the blood pouring down 
my face into my eyes—all soft and warm and horrid. But 
she—she looked as if I’d stabbed her with something sharp. 
Her face had a queer tortured look. I knew from that she 
must have been somehow made to marry him, and that he 
knew it too.” 

“But, darling Vicky, twenty-five or twenty-six years ago 
—in the eighteen-nineties—people didn’t. They weren’t 
quite the Dark Ages, you know. Women were fighting jolly 
hard for their freedom—some of them were awfully eman¬ 
cipated. And Mummie isn’t exactly weak.” 

The idea disturbed and horrified him. 

He tried to assure himself that there could be no truth 
in such a suggestion. His father’s temper had grown de¬ 
cidedly worse of late years, but as a younger man he could 
not have been wholly unattractive. That formidable phys¬ 
ical strength would always make its own appeal to women. 

“Of course it entirely depends upon the kind of pressure 
that was used,” continued Vicky, musingly. “And you know 
I’ve always believed that grandpapa was a bad hat. He 
ruined himself with gambling, and she must have had a per¬ 
fectly wretched life with him. Of course she never talks 
about it—she never tells us anything what happened. It was 
Gerard who found out something and told Barbara. And 
from all I can gather he must have been even more trying 
as a father than Dad! Dad at any rate is frightfully 
respectable.” 

They both laughed. Then Eustace said: 

“Look here, Vicky—we must try and get you away from 
here for a bit. This kind of thing is ruining your nerves.” 


188 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

“Oh, he’ll never let me go till I’ve promised to marry 
Mr. Soames in July.” 

“July!” Eustace’ face was aghast. 

“That’s the idea,”—she made a little grimace—“besides, 
where on earth could I go?” 

“We might go somewhere together. I’ll speak to 
Mummie.” 

“Oh, Eustie—it’s awfully kind of you—but it isn’t any 
good. I’ll just stay here, and do what they want. I can’t 
fight any more.” 

She leaned back on her pillow and closed her eyes. 

“Nonsense, my dear child,” whispered Eustace’ voice. 

She looked at him. 

“Do you think Mummie and I would stand by and see you 
forced into a marriage you hated?” he said. 

“I couldn’t make her out this morning,” said Vicky. “She 
didn’t actually take my part or Dad’s. She hardly said a 
word, but when I was hurt she made me lie on the sofa and 
bound up my head.” 

She had been aware, even at the height of her own emo¬ 
tion, of the ambiguous, enigmatic attitude of her mother. It 
was almost as if she had not dared to say anything in her 
daughter’s defense. 

“She can’t possibly wish for it!” exclaimed Eustace, with 
abrupt determination. “He isn’t a bad sort, old Soames—I 
really rather liked him last night. But he’s years too old 
for you, Vicky. What a pity he doesn’t offer his hand and 
heart and his beastly fifteen thousand a year to Pamela!” 

“It’s what she’s been hoping for, I’m perfectly certain,” 
said Vicky, with a wan little smile. “What luck for her!” 

Pamela’s discomfiture seemed to be the one bright spot 
in the whole episode. 

“Well, she may get him yet if she plays her cards well. 
He seems bent on having a wife from Pendre. And Moth 
Hill Park would exactly suit her. I must be off now, dar¬ 
ling. I shall take a walk before lunch. Cheer up, my child— 
all is not yet lost!” He struck a melodramatic attitude that 
forced another smile from her. 


CONFLICT 


189 


He wanted to go out into the woods and formulate some 
plan for taking his sister away from her present environ¬ 
ment. Vicky was capable of yielding for the sake of peace 
—therein lay her great danger. Martin was too far away 
to be of any present help to her. And Eustace dreaded her 
assent to this marriage as a means of escape from Pendre 
and its shadow. . . . 


4 

Pamela knew there had been a disturbance; it affected the 
whole household. Vicky remained in her room that day. It 
was difficult to discover exactly what had passed, for Lord 
Pendre had shut himself into his study and would see no one. 

Sometimes Pamela felt that Eustace could read her 
thoughts, and it made her feel a little ashamed of their 
jealousy, their meanness. Every day now they seemed to 
grow a little further apart. And she had displeased him, 
as she knew, by her remarks about Vicky at breakfast that 
morning. 

She was outraged by his cool indifference, by the composed 
rather sarcastic manner, which made her feel as if he were 
continually fencing with her. Parrying her words, eluding 
her thrusts, quite ready to wound if she pressed or provoked 
him too far. Eustace was, she decided, far the cleverest of 
the Wingraves. His intelligence was astute; his intuitions 
were almost feminine in their uncanny power of discerning 
the very truth one most wished to hide. 

Lord Pendre had certainly hoped that Eustace would ulti¬ 
mately console Pamela for the loss of Philip. He had even 
hinted as much to her. But now she could only bitterly see 
that Eustace avoided her on every possible occasion. Vicky’s 
influence was undoubtedly at work—perhaps a careless word 
concerning the project had reached her ears, so that she 
had been able to put him on his guard. 

At first Pamela had not been attracted by him. He had 
little of his brother’s splendid physique and personal beauty, 
nothing of his gay, irresistible charm, his sunny disposition, 


190 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


his eager, ardent love of life and all that it could give him. 
There had been something about Philip Wingrave that liter¬ 
ally swept you off your feet. . . . But now that she was be¬ 
ginning to know Eustace better, she could discern qualities 
in him that Philip had never possessed at all. Deep qualities 
of heart and intellect, a touch of wonderful idealism ... a 
charm that was not at first perceptible but that grew upon 
one slowly but very surely, so that almost without her know¬ 
ing it she had fallen in love with him. 

At first her thoughts had been concentrated upon those 
things which he was able to give her. She had pictured him 
returning with a subdued eagerness to occupy his brother’s 
place at home, in the firm . . . and perhaps even in regard 
to herself. Instead of which he had shown them all very 
plainly that he hadn’t wanted anything that was Philip’s. 
He had displayed this cool, critical, independent spirit. He 
refused utterly to be coerced or forced into any given path. 
He belonged to himself, as the saying goes; he had no need 
of anything they could offer him. He seemed to set aside 
wealth and physical ease and worldly position just as if 
they were things for which he had no use. And Vicky— 
her own malicious little enemy, Vicky—was the one person 
who seemed to approach him with any intimacy. . . . 

Then this morning, his cool indifference toward herself 
had possessed a hint of more definite hostility, that flicked 
her like a lash. It revealed to her the measure of her own 
feeling for him, so that she had left him, to go up to her 
own room and cry. She was furious with herself for giving 
her love unasked, without hope of return or requital, but 
there it was, and she was not sure if she could prove capa¬ 
ble of hiding it. She was always afraid lest Vicky with 
her keen, ruthless young vision should discover it and perhaps 
tell Eustace. 

When she spoke to him now, Pamela often opposed or dis¬ 
agreed with him in order to hide her own feeling for him. 
It was mere camouflage. She was miserable . . . she hadn’t 
felt such keen and bitter and humiliating misery as this in 
all her life. Even when Philip died she had not been half 


CONFLICT 191 

so wretched; there had been something ennobling in that 
sorrow; it had never been touched by this hot, burning 
shame. 

She was beginning to feel how wonderful it would be 
to be loved by Eustace, to see his shining, enthusiastic eyes 
fixed upon her, as if the world contained nothing else. And 
then she realized his antagonism afresh, the remembrance 
of his light, wounding speeches came back to her like a blow. 
And yet she was beautiful—very beautful if she could be¬ 
lieve what Philip had told her so often. . . . 

She wanted Eustace to go away; she felt that she couldn t 
go on living there, in the same house, seeing him every day 
. . . And yet it would be a thousand times worse without 
him. . . His absence would be a more bitter thing than even 
his hostile presence. 

Luncheon that day was a terrible meal. Lord Pendre 
looked savagely angry; he hardly spoke at all. Eustace was 
calm, addressing sometimes a few words to his mother. Vicky 
did not appear. 

The scene must have surpassed in violence all the many 
scenes of which Pamela had had cognizance since her first 
coming to Pendre. Vicky had certainly reduced the way of 
exasperating her father to a fine art. She deserved all she 
got, and Pamela was a little curious to know exactly what 
she had received on this particular occasion. 

“May I go up and see Vicky ?” she asked Lady Pendre, 
when the meal was over and Lord Pendre had vanished 
moodily into his study. 

“No—better not. I want her to rest.” 

Pamela went indolently out of the room. 

When she had gone, Eustace turned to his mother. 

“Anything more happened?” 

She shook her head. “I must try to get your father to 
give up this idea.” 

“Well, this sort of thing simply can’t go on. It’s killing 
Vicky.” 

“I only wish I could put an end to it.” 

“Dad must be perfectly insane!” said Eustace, bitterly. 


192 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“Vicky’s such a miserable little baby still, she half thinks 
it’s her duty to obey him. Can’t you do anything?” 

He gave her one of those long, searching half-accusing 
looks, as if he were reproaching her for not coming more 
actively to her daughter’s assistance. 

“But, Eustace—what am I to do?” she cried. 

He thought suddenly: “So she’s getting to the end of 
her tether too. . But aloud he only said: “You could 
take Vicky away—abroad. She’s wretched here. It’s up to 
you to—to save her.” 

“He’d never let us go,” she answered. “And it would be 
difficult too for me to leave him. We have always stayed 
together. He can’t bear me to go away even for a week 
without him.” 

She rose and went to the door. Eustace sprang up and 
opened it for her. He saw her go across the hall and enter 
her husband’s study. There was something drooping, almost 
lifeless, about her attitude. So she, too, was suffering from 
conflicting loyalties. But through it all, Eustace was never 
able to doubt, as Vicky did, her love for her husband. The 
bond between them was a very strong one. She could not 
influence him, because he was a man almost incapable of 
being influenced by anyone. But she wielded a certain 
power. Eustace wondered how far that power would avail 
to save Vicky now. 

5 

Lord Pendre was writing letters. He looked up irritably 
as his wife came into the room. 

“Well, what is it?” 

“Didn’t Ernest Soames say he was coming to-night?” 

“Yes.” 

“You must telephone and put him off. He can’t possibly 
see Vicky with that dreadful cut on her face.” 

“If you want to know, I’ve already telephoned. And he 
tells me that he’s going to the South of France for a few 
weeks. I thought it wasn’t a bad idea. By the time he comes 
back Vicky may be in a better frame of mind.” 


CONFLICT 193 

“I’m very glad he’s going. I wanted to ask you to let 
me take Vicky away.” 

“You?—Vicky?” 

Never before had she come to him with such a request 
as that on her lips. Never had she suggested leaving him, 
even for a few weeks. The broad, black brows met in a 
straight, heavy line across his face. 

“So you mean to go against me, Giselda?” 

“I’ve no choice. She’s my daughter. One has duties to 
one’s children as well as to one’s husband. And after what 
she said this morning—” 

“I know that she said a great deal that was excessively im¬ 
pertinent. If she’d been a boy I’d have thrashed her 
soundly!” 

“I felt that in another moment I should have to tell her,” 
she pursued, taking no notice of the interpolation. “You 
mustn’t drive me into doing that, you know.” 

She looked at him steadily, fearlessly. There were certain 
things to which normally they never alluded. Things they 
had tacitly agreed to keep out of sight. Their long shared 
life had enforced a kind of reticence, had promoted a certain 
oblivion. They had suffered together, and suffering mutually 
shared sometimes produces a bond almost as strong and 
imperishable as that of love. Yet, Lord Pendre knew that 
his wife had loved him. She had not only loved him, but 
she had made heavy sacrifices for him. He wondered some'- 
times if she still remembered them. He had been almost 
uniformly good to her, as if aware that the very structure 
of their happiness was not of a kind to bear a great deal 
of sharp testing. He had been lavishly generous, too, as if to 
compensate for those things of which he had deprived her. 
Perhaps she had thought that the deprivation would not be 
permanent. But she must have learned by this time that he 
would never consent to give her back those things of which 
she had been robbed. Even where she was concerned there 
was a hard streak in his character. She could have all but 
the one thing, and for some time the very desire for that 
withheld gift had atrophied, so to speak, in her heart. 


194 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Philip’s death had aroused it to new life. It had not 
been dead, that longing, that thirst of the soul, and its awak¬ 
ening had given her acute torture. She needed it now more 
than anything that his millions could give her. 

Would Eustace find it? Would Vicky find it? With 
young disdain they flicked aside the worldly gifts and prizes 
that were offered to them. Restless, and hungry of adven¬ 
ture and experience, they refused the proffered toys with 
characteristic contempt. They would have none of them. 
But they were seeking they knew not what. Something that 
subconsciously they were aware was missing in their lives. 
Just as if something of her own spiritual hunger had com¬ 
municated itself to them because they were her children. . . 

When she thought of Eustace now, she prayed that he 
might not through blindness or ignorance miss the road. 

Lord Pendre’s angry voice interrupted her thoughts. 

“Drive you? What on earth do you mean?” he snapped. 
“It’s perfectly absurd your talking to me like that! It hasn’t 
got anything to do with Vicky at all. It seems to me the 
only person I can get anything approaching sense from now 
is Pamela!” 

“I’m afraid Pamela sees what an advantage it would be 
for her if Vicky were to marry.” 

“Now why should you accuse her of that? Poor little 
thing—you’re all against her!” 

“Not at all. But now Vicky’s grown up it changes Pam¬ 
ela’s position here, yicky takes her place as the daughter 
of the house.” 

“I won’t have Pamela made to feel anything of the kind! 
You’ll only succeed in driving her away if you suggest any¬ 
thing of the sort to her.” 

“People will naturally invite Vicky when they wouldn’t 
think of asking Pamela.” Her tone was cool and steady. 

“I wish to goodness that Eustace—” began Lord Pendre. 

“It’s no good thinking of that. They aren’t even sympa¬ 
thetic to each other. Eustace would never think of her in 
that way, though sometimes I’m a little afraid she’s begin¬ 
ning to care for him.” 


CONFLICT 


195 


“Nonsense, Giselda! You must be making a mistake. How 
could she think twice about that ill-conditioned boy—after 
our dear Phip?” 

“I’m sure she is beginning to.” 

“Well, nothing would please me better than those two 
marriages. Vicky and Ernest—Eustace and Pamela. Our 
three children would be most happily and comfortably 
settled.” 

“It’s no use your thinking about it, Hugo. And I can’t let 
Vicky be sacrificed. You’ve had your own way with her 
always up till now, and I can tell you it hasn’t been very 
easy for me to stand by and watch her being—bullied!” She 
flung the word at him with an almost cruel emphasis. “Rather 
than that you should force her into this marriage, I would 
take her away myself.” 

He stared at her in incredulous astonishment. It was the 
first time she had ever attempted to interfere between him 
and any of their four children. This little speech of hers, 
insignificant and unimportant in itself, seemed to inaugurate 
a new epoch—one which might even hold a drastic change 
in their own harmonious mutual relations. 

His pride suffered something of hurt. He had believed 
that her mute acquiescence had been based always upon a 
profound inward approval of his words and actions. And 
now she frankly told him that it hadn’t always been easy 
for her to stand by and watch his treatment of Vicky. Bul¬ 
lied. . . . Perhaps all the time in her secret thoughts—so un¬ 
known to him—she had blamed him and pitied Vicky. . . 

“You talk as if I’d been a monster to my children!” he 
exclaimed, with a harsh laugh. “I’ve always done what I 
believed to be best for them all. A certain amount of rough¬ 
ness is good for children—it fits them for the hard things 
of life. And if I didn’t believe that Vicky would be happy 
with Soames, I should never have dreamt of encouraging 
the marriage. But she mustn’t be allowed to wreck her own 
life by throwing away such a chance as this.” 

“It’s no use, Hugo. And Eustace won’t let it happen 
either!” 


196 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“Eustace? What’s it got to do with him?” 

“He’s devoted to Vicky—you know what friends they’ve 
always been.” 

“Just let him come and tell me that he’s going to try to 
prevent it, that’s all!” His dark face had a grim, forbidding 
expression. 

“If you ask him, he’ll tell you just what he thinks. That 
it’s— insane !” She hesitated before pronouncing the word, 
but when she did so it held a deadly emphasis. 

Lord Pendre’s swarthy face flushed a dull red. 

“Let him come and tell me that himself—that’s all!” he 
said. He could hardly articulate for rage. That Eustace 
should dare to pit his puny force against him seemed to him 
m intolerable assumption of authority. 

“Hugo—the children have their own lives to lead. We 
can’t interfere. Parents don’t, you know. They try to keep 
the friendship and the confidence of their children, but they 
have to let them find their own paths. . There was a 
sound of pleading in her voice. 

But he did not answer, and in the pause that followed she 
went out of the room, leaving him alone. 


CHAPTER XI 


Sursum Corda 

1 

T7USTACE rose early one morning. He slipped out of 
the house, took a short cut through the woods, and was 
soon on the smooth high road that ran parallel with the 
shore to Llyn. 

It was May, and the May dew drenched everything, the 
ferns, the long grasses shivering in the wind, the blossom 
that dripped from lilac and laburnum and hawthorn, the sil¬ 
ver moon-daisies. In the distance a cuckoo was calling, the 
soft persistent monotonous sound made itself heard above 
the songs of all other birds. It was still early and a mist 
hung over the sea. 

The pure racing spring air was fragrant with dewy earth 
and woodland flowers. Here and there in glimpses the sea 
revealed itself, colorless and very calm. In the distance 
there was a smudge of purple-colored smoke. Overhead the 
gulls flew restlessly, giving their little mewing cries. Some¬ 
where up in the sky, a lark was singing its joyous matins. 

To his right the green meadows dipped to the shore. Be¬ 
yond them was the belt of warm yellow sand. Before him 
lay the little modern town of Llyn—a red blur of clustered 
houses above which the lazy blue smoke curled from innu¬ 
merable chimneys. The town was spreading rapidly, and the 
red and white villas that climbed the low hills to the back 
of it were already beginning to form themselves into streets 
and avenues; they were no longer so scattered and isolated. 
In a few years Llyn would be quite a fashionable seaside 
resort for people from the great midland manufacturing 

197 


198 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


towns, as well as from Liverpool and the West Riding’, com¬ 
peting perhaps with Rhyl and Llandudno. 

The Catholic church at Llyn stood a little apart from the 
town, on one of the steep roads that climbed toward the 
hills. Eustace had often passed it quite carelessly in the 
old days. It had held no possible interest for him. And he 
had little motive for seeking it now except the very human 
boyish one of wishing to see Nella Tresham again. 

More than two months had passed since their meeting on 
the Llyn road, but she had been constantly in his thoughts. 
If she chanced to see him this morning she might even guess 
what had brought him hither. He didn’t mind much. He 
would perhaps have liked her to know that it was for that 
reason. 

He had felt grateful to Soames for his carelessly proffered 
information about Miss Tresham’s daily habits. That he 
had not acted upon it before, had been due to a variety of 
reasons. Mainly perhaps they were concerned with Vicky. 
He hadn’t liked to risk a contest with the Powers just when 
Vicky was so unhappy and unpopular. But Soames was still 
away; a truce had been called until his return. The scar on 
her white forehead was now only a tiny red mark. The 
storm had subsided, and Eustace had honestly tried in those 
past weeks to devote himself to his sister. She was too 
lonely. It was for her sake that he had not left home, al¬ 
though his presence there, idle and unemployed, was begin¬ 
ning openly to annoy his father. But he had an idea that 
before long he would have to take Vicky forcibly away. 
Quite away—perhaps abroad. She could certainly have a 
nervous breakdown if this affair were to crop up again . . . 
He couldn’t, just for selfish motives, leave her in the lurch at 
such a highly critical time. 

But this morning he had been sensible of an urgent desire 
to see Miss Tresham again, and the Catholic church at Llyn 
was of all places the one where she was most likely to be 
found. 

And yet subconsciously, Eustace knew that his intentions 
were not so free from a deeper spiritual motive as he wished 


SURSUM CORDA 199 

to think. Catholicism was in his thoughts, and indeed had 
haunted them persistently since that nocturnal visit he had 
paid to the ballroom with Vicky. Nor had it been a mere 
idle fancy that had made him tell himself that if he ever 
inherited Pendre he would replace that extinguished lamp 
in a restored chapel. In common justice it would be his 
initial action. And for the first time he had seen that he 
could do something for Pendre that Philip perhaps would 
never have thought of doing. 

This thought, this desire to re-light that lamp in its an¬ 
cient sanctuary consecrated once more to Catholic worship, 
had become a definite ambition with him. But to achieve it 
he would have to form his life on those conventional lines 
he hated. He would have to concentrate his mind upon sub¬ 
mitting to his father’s will and taking that proffered place 
in the firm. Otherwise there would be small chance of his 
ever possessing Pendre. 

Nevertheless, Catholicism had never seemed to him quite 
a probable solution of his future spiritual adventure, post¬ 
poned because he realized the impossibility of deserting 
Vicky during the present crisis. At any moment Soames 
might return to Moth Hill Park, and the whole subject 
would be reopened. And without his constant support and 
sympathy Eustace felt that Vicky was capable of yielding 
to paternal pressure and embarking upon this loveless mar¬ 
riage. Martin was too far away, and if he wrote, his letters 
never reached her. Eustace felt keenly his own responsi¬ 
bility in regard to Vicky. . . 

But always for him there was that future day when he 
would deliberately seek the things of the spirit. He felt 
the need of them more and more in his daily life, here at 
Pendre, where they were so pushed out of sight and where 
the gospel of wealth, efficiency and success was so assidu¬ 
ously preached. But he knew very little of the Catholic 
religion, and had never come across any Catholics until the 
War. Then he had once or twice been rather intimately 
associated with Catholic officers, one of whom in dying had 
given him the crucifix he always wore, only entreating him 


200 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

not to remove it until he was dead. It was that same little 
crucifix his mother had kissed with so much repressed emo¬ 
tion, such a passion of reverence. Almost as if it had been 
something very dear to her. . . Nothing about her had ever 
puzzled him so completely as that little impulsive action. 

That his father possessed a deep and personal detestation 
of the Catholic religion and all that it stood for, had seemed 
abundantly clear to Eustace ever since that night when 
Soames had dined at Pendre and had spoken of the Chitten- 
dens and their chapel. Lord Pendre’s bitter little speech had 
remained in his son’s mind, and more and more did it seem 
to him that some such secret hatred toward the Church of 
which they were members, had actuated his arbitrary deci¬ 
sion not to allow his wife to call upon the Treshams. Obvi¬ 
ously he was resolved to eliminate all such influences from 
his own home. 

What would he say now if he could see his son, tramping 
along the road to Llyn at this early hour for no other pur¬ 
pose in the world but to attend the eight o’clock Mass in a 
Catholic church? 

As Eustace drew nearer to his goal his thoughts became 
more violently concentrated upon the subject of religion. 
Having passed his father’s attitude toward the Catholic 
church in rapid review, he began to consider his own edu¬ 
cation in matters of religion. What he had learnt on that 
subject, he had learnt in school classroom. From his own 
home life it had been utterly excluded, and this perhaps of 
set purpose. Just that weekly pilgrimage with his father on 
Sunday mornings to the parish church. The boredom of the 
sermon. An occasional vehement attack from the vicar on 
the subject of “Romish” errors and practices infiltrating 
the Church of England with their subtle poison. No such 
practices existed at Pendre, and Eustace hardly knew what 
they were, but concluded that an allusion to the confessional 
had been intended. But when his first emancipation from 
home influence and home tyranny had come to him during 
the War, his thoughts had turned almost passionately to re¬ 
ligion. In the trenches, in camp, in hospital, on board ship, 


SURSUM CORDA 


201 


it had haunted him persistently until it had acquired puzzling 
and extravagant proportions in his mind. He was curious, 
but with his curiosity there was a deep instinctive reverence, 
a great personal love—though how he had got it he could 
never tell—for our Blessed Lord. 

Since his return home he had begun to suspect his parents 
of some deep divergence on the point. His mother had 
always been silent about religion, never telling her children 
the simplest Bible stories or teaching them their first pray^ 
ers. Undoubtedly, therefore, the subject touched her deep¬ 
est reserves. But he could remember asking her once if 
he had been baptized. She had paused, looking at him with 
grave, serious eyes. He had known instinctively that she 
didn’t want to answer his questions. And then she had said 
quietly: “Your father had you christened the day you were 
born.” That was all, and her frozen look and manner had 
effectually forbidden further questioning. 

He had longed to ask her then if it had been done with 
her consent or not, but he had felt chilled and repulsed into 
silence. She had made him, however, implicitly aware that 
the fact of his baptism had had nothing to do with herself. 
Had she disapproved? Had she not wished her little new¬ 
born son to participate in this sacrament? Had she some 
secret animosity toward religion? But as if to contradict such 
a dreadful supposition, his mental vision immediately recon¬ 
structed that little scene when she had stooped over him 
to clutch his crucifix and had raised it passionately to her 
lips. 

Now he had come to the steep, muddy little path that led 
straight up to the church and presbytery. He paused for 
a moment outside the closed door. From this height he 
could look across the clustered roofs of Llyn to the sea be¬ 
yond. Eastward the fields, very green on this May morn¬ 
ing, stretched away till they joined the Pendre woods, now 
a mist of brilliant emerald. 

It was very silent except for the sharp shrill cry of the 
gulls, and the deep distant voice of the sea. Even on calm 
days at Llyn the sea seemed to “call.” 


202 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


2 

Eustace lifted the latch and entered the church. The 
priest was already at the altar, wearing red vestments. Mass 
had begun, but, looking at his watch, Eustace saw that it was 
only a few minutes after eight. He knelt down as everyone 
else was kneeling, and bowed his head for a moment in 
prayer. Then he glanced round the building. 

It was modern and rather bare, the walls were white¬ 
washed, the benches and the solitary confessional were made 
of pitch-pine. It had nothing of the dim diffused light, 
jewelled by windows of ancient glass, that he remembered 
in that foreign cathedral. There were not many people 
present, perhaps about a dozen in all, distributed over the 
various benches. Men, women, and children, mostly of the 
poorer working type, shabbily dressed. 

Before the altar a bronze lamp with ruby-colored glass 
flickered. It was the one ancient and beautiful thing in the 
church, probably it had been the gift of some private donor. 
When Eustace looked at it now, he thought of the lamp 
at Pendre—the lamp that had burned for five centuries and 
had been extinguished a dozen years ago. He felt a sense of 
vicarious guilt, as if he were not wholly able to dissociate 
himself from this action of his father’s in turning the chapel 
into a ballroom, thus obliterating every trace of its ancient 
and holy office. 

It was not—and of this he felt perfectly convinced—the 
origin and source of the shadow, for the chapel had been 
dismantled before his father went to live at Pendre, but 
that it was in some way definitely though mysteriously con¬ 
nected with it he could not emphatically deny. 

Supposing someone should see him here—recognize him 
as Lord Pendre’s son? Gossip, as he knew, spread rapidly 
in country places, and the fact of his presence there that 
morning might easily reach his father’s ears. And somehow 
he didn’t want that to happen. He was perfectly aware of 
his father’s bitter and intolerant hatred of the Catholic 
Church—a hatred so strong that it even suggested he had 


SURSUM CORDA 


203 


some personal grudge against it. It was a sentiment possess¬ 
ing indeed the bitterness that characterizes a dislike com¬ 
monly bestowed not only upon those who have wronged, but 
also upon those who have been in some way wronged. 

Eustace put up his hand, and felt for the crucifix that 
even impossible. When could his father have come into 
direct conflict with the Catholic Church? How could he 
in any sense have wronged it? And yet the extinguishing 
of that lamp—his satisfaction in the accomplishment of the 
deed had seemed when he spoke of it to partake of the qual¬ 
ity of an act of vengeance. 

Eustace put up his hand, and felt for the crucifix that 
lay hidden beneath his shirt, close to the throbbing of his 
heart. 

There was a general movement as the priest went to the 
Gospel side of the altar; everyone rose and crossed them¬ 
selves on brow, lips and breast. Eustace stood up, too, and 
now for the first time his eyes discerned Miss Tresham. She 
was standing in the front bench, and by her side was Mrs. 
Welby. Nella, slightly the taller of the two, wore a black 
coat and a small blue hat that with its down-turned brim 
hid her face and bright hair almost entirely. 

He longed for her then to know of his presence. Perhaps 
she would turn her head. . . . But she did not, and presently 
he saw her kneel once more, her face hidden in her little 
ungloved hands. 

So this was part—not the least part, surely of her daily 
life. He found himself envying her, because for her spirit¬ 
ual things were already settled and confirmed in their or¬ 
dered, punctual regularity. She must have been brought up 
from her earliest to believe in the tremendous dogmas of 
the Catholic Church. She had had no suffering odyssey to 
fulfill. Never for her perhaps were those words which 
surely every convert must have applied at least once to him¬ 
self: “I have sought Thee sorrowing. . . ” 

Suddenly it seemed to him as if he alone of all those 
present were standing poor and shivering and dispossessed 
upon a cold doorstep, while within everyone was happy, 


204 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


warmed, and fed. Needing nothing . . . for had they not 
all things in the one? 

He thought of Pendre, crammed full of material comfort, 
and yet so cold, so lifeless, so inanimate. No museum could 
have seemed to him more impersonal in its possessions. He 
‘thought of Vicky, little more than a child, being forced 
into a loveless marriage. Himself thrust into a career for 
which he had neither taste nor aptitude. And for both 
money, and yet more money, was the glittering goal. Surely, 
if his father had ever considered their lives from a spiritual 
standpoint, he would hesitate before trying to impose his 
will upon them in matters so vital to their happiness and 
well-being. 

And his mother? . . . Somehow, in this matter, he wasn’t 
able altogether to dissociate them. She belonged so little to 
herself—so completely to her husband. The old puzzle!—* 
with its heart-breaking insolubility. Sometimes Eustace felt 
as if she had lent herself to some pact whereby she had rele¬ 
gated their children entirely to his care. More, it was as 
if she were pledged in honor to this unnatural renunciation, 
shrinking always from any intimacy with them lest perhaps 
her influence should inadvertently sway them. . . . 

Across the silence Eustace heard the priest’s voice slightly 
raised. “Sursum corda . . —the words reached his ears 

with a curious distinctness. Then, Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus. 
... A bell rang sharply, like an imperative summons. 
Everyone knelt down, and Eustace almost mechanically fol¬ 
lowed the general example. Sursum corda. . . Lift up your 
hearts. . . He felt the command like a clarion cry. It im¬ 
pressed him almost against his will. He felt, indeed, as if 
it were being especially addressed to himself—the poor shiv¬ 
ering one upon the doorstep, who was only able to watch 
the lights and, yes, the Feast from afar, unable to participate. 
The bell rang again, and once more he saw, as he had done 
long years ago in that foreign cathedral, the Host uplifted 
for all to worship. There was a deep pause, a silence 
charged with a holy but fearful suspense. The bell rang 
again, and he saw the Elevation of the Chalice. The Precious 


SURSUM CORDA 205 

Blood of the Lamb, wherein sins though they be as scarlet 
shall be washed as white as wool. , . . 

And in that moment the Divine Presence made its first 
intimate appeal to the heart of Eustace Wingrave. He felt 
it like the piercing of a sharp yet sweet sword that touched 
his heart to agony. 

He forgot everything else in the world. Body and soul, 
he surrendered himself to the tremendous, awful, yet beau¬ 
tiful influence that permeated all his senses. He did not 
struggle as so many do when they first feel that passionate 
appeal for the soul’s complete surrender. The body laid 
aside its claims in instant renunciation. He thought of that 
night when he had lain under the Syrian stars, and of the 
Presence that had, albeit invisibly, consoled him. He did 
not even envisage exactly what was happening to him, be¬ 
yond the bald fact that something had, as it were, physically 
touched him. Yes, pierced him, as surely as the lance of 
Longinus had pierced the Divine Heart upon the Cross. . . . 

Then he remembered having once seen upon an Italian 
bronze medal of Renaissance days, the sculptured present¬ 
ment of St. Longinus kneeling at the foot of the Cross, 
bowed and prostrate with grief and remorse, embracing the 
Wounds of Him Whom he had pierced. Eustace had always 
thought it the most poignant thing he had ever seen, and 
it came into his mind now. And again he thought of that 
scene when his mother had snatched the crucifix from his 
hand and kissed it with a passion of remorse and love, as 
if she too were aware that once she had pierced the Sacred 
Heart by some act of sin or rebellion. . . . 

Mass was over. One by one the worshipers withdrew. 
There was a sound of wheels outside in the road—the throb 
of machinery. But Eustace Wingrave still knelt there, his 
face buried in his hands. 

“I meant to go away, to look for You!” he said, once in 
a whisper. “Can it be true you were so near all the 
time? ...” 

So near—hidden within the Tabernacle upon the Altar 
—in the little Catholic church at Llyn. . . . 


206 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


3 

Breakfast, as has been seen, was an old-fashioned cere¬ 
monious meal at Pendre, served in the big dining-room at 
half-past nine o’clock. No hasty swallowing of cups of cof¬ 
fee and slices of crisp toast in the privacy of one’s room. 
Unpunctuality seldom escaped paternal comment or censure, 
since late-rising was regarded as a subtle form of degen¬ 
eracy. It was, however, nearly ten o’clock that morning 
when Eustace reached home, with his boots muddy from the 
long tramp, his face flushed with exercise and from contact 
with the brisk morning air; his eyes burning like great 
lamps as if he had just emerged from some strange exciting 
experience. 

Lord Pendre bestowed upon him a swift ironic scrutiny. 

“Where on earth have you been to?” 

“For a walk,” replied Eustace, laconically, taking his seat 
at the table. 

He exchanged quick glances with Vicky. Pamela sitting 
opposite intercepted them. What had he been doing? It 
was so unlike him to go out before breakfast. Vicky per¬ 
haps knew. . . . 

“I am very glad to hear that your health is so far restored 
as to permit of your taking a walk before breakfast. But 
in future you’ll kindly be punctual.” 

“Very well. Dad.” 

Oh, why couldn’t he let him alone? . . . 

“As you’ve nothing else to do all day except to amuse 
yourself, you can perhaps arrange to take your exercise 
at a more convenient moment!” 

“Very well. Dad. I’m sorry to be late. But I ... I got 
delayed.” 

Lord Pendre was vaguely dissatisfied with these answers, 
since they offered no real explanation of Eustace’ mysterious 
unpunctuality and late appearance. Besides, the fellow had 
a queer look in his eyes this morning. If he hadn’t been the 
most abstemious of young men he might even have supposed 


SURSUM CORDA 207 

that he had been drinking. . . What on earth could he have 
been up to? 

Aware that he had never sought to win the confidence of 
his children, he was yet bitterly annoyed when the fact that 
he did not possess it was, as in the present instance, clearly 
demonstrated. 

Lord Pendre’s temper was always a little short in the 
morning. He demanded scathingly: 

“May I inquire what delayed you?” 

“I forgot . . . the time,” answered Eustace, still evasively. 

From across the table he was conscious that Pamela was 
watching the little scene with keen interest. Her presence 
was especially distasteful to him this morning. He intensely 
disliked being criticized or reprimanded in front of her. 
He glanced at her, and their eyes met. She looked beautiful, 
but her loveliness made no appeal to him, the warm, ex¬ 
quisite whiteness of her skin, the dark blue eyes, the gold 
of her hair. Almost it seemed to him a cold and cruel thing. 

“Was it very cold out?” she asked, smiling at him as her 
eyes met his. 

“No—it’s a perfect morning,” he answered, hardly know¬ 
ing what he was saying. Had it been cold? He really 
had not noticed; he only knew that he had returned home 
warmed through and through. 

“Well, I think we may now regard you as cured,” said 
Lord Pendre. “And in that case it’s simply absurd for you 
to remain here in idleness. You must get to work. You’ve 
been back nearly three months-” His black eyes flashed. 
He looked very fierce and formidable. “At your age I never 
had three months’ holiday!” 

Eustace was silent; he knew the futility of argument. And 
if it was true that his quest was finished, that there was no 
need to go out into the world and seek a spiritual solution 
of his problem because he had found it here, almost at his 
very gates, it would be perhaps best to submit. To go into 
the firm—to work—keeping that goal ever before his eyes, 
the re-lighting of the lamp in Pendre chapel. 

When he thought of it his very heart softened. This was 


208 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


what the old house had asked of him on his return. Every¬ 
thing was suddenly quite clear. Clearer than it had ever 
been. There would be a Catholic chapel at Pendre, if it 
should ever be his property, because he himself would be 
a Catholic. Involuntarily he put his hand up to his throat 
and felt for the chain that encircled his neck. He could feel 
through his shirt the hard shape of the crucifix. 

Yes, he would work, he would earn money, but it would 
not be for the mere desire of an increased material comfort. 
He saw himself fighting his way in the world so as to possess 
Pendre. To have a chapel with the Holy of Holies beneath 
his roof, and the Lamp burning before it as once it had 
burned through five centuries of worship and prayer. 

“I’m sure I shall be ready to work soon, Dad,” he said 
cheerfully. 

Even his mother was astonished. What had led him to 
this swift submission? She and Vicky knew how he had 
been kicking against the goad ever since his return home. 
Why had he suddenly stifled that urgent cry for freedom 
and liberty? 

Lady Pendre looked at him in anguish. Did it mean then 
that he had deliberately renounced the spiritual quest upon 
which his heart had been so set? Had the wealth and 
materialism and comfort of Pendre already enveloped him 
to such an extent that he was beginning to let it obscure all 
spiritual issues? She could not believe it, and yet what 
else could have effected this sudden submission—this renun¬ 
ciation of those higher ambitions? 

She, too, wondered where Eustace had been that morning, 
and why he was obviously so determined not to give any ac¬ 
count of his probably quite simple doings. When he came in 
she had noticed that curious uplifted look he had had in his 
face. But he, too, like herself, could be secretive and reti¬ 
cent. And how could they expect their grown-up sons and 
daughters to tell them everything? Especially a young man 
like Eustace, who for three years had enjoyed independence 
and perfect exemption from parental interference and coer¬ 
cion. Perhaps he found it galling here, this surveillance, 


SURSUM CORDA 


209 


this perpetual questioning. Other men of his age could prob¬ 
ably return an hour or so late for breakfast without exciting 
any other comment than a fear that they might find every¬ 
thing cold. And now this cheerful acquiescence in the sug¬ 
gestion that he was well enough to work! ... It had aston¬ 
ished her fully as much as it had astonished her husband. 

It was a relief when Lord Pendre rose and went abruptly 
out of the room. He was satisfied now that Eustace was 
beginning to react to home influences, to yield, to perceive 
how foolish it would be to quarrel with his bread-and-butter. 
Perhaps he ought to’ have paid less attention to those pre¬ 
liminary convulsions, to have shown more patience. But 
then he had not expected Eustace to submit so quickly and 
with such a show of sweet reasonableness. Was there any 
other influence at work behind the scenes? Lord Pendre 
was always inclined to be suspicious, and a sudden change of 
front invariably made him so. What was it that his wife 
had said about Eustace’ desire to seek some solution of the 
religious problem? Well, a few months of hard steady work 
in the firm would soon sweep those cobwebs from his brain. 
He would see that Eustace’ leisure should be extremely lim¬ 
ited. Plenty of strenuous occupation—that was the best cure 
for spiritual yearnings. He had never had any himself, and 
he was sure that they were not wholesome things to fill a 
young man’s brain. 

Well, he would take Eustace at his word and arrange for 
him to go north quite soon. While he was at home he only 
aided and abetted Vicky in her tiresome rebellion. . . . 

Vicky soon followed her father’s example. She had her 
music-lesson that day; a professor came over from Chester, 
and would soon be here. She loved music, and to play the 
piano was her one talent; she did it brilliantly. 

Pamela did not stir. She sat there listening to the desultory 
conversation carried on by the mother and son. Eustace 
wished that she would go; he could never talk freely to his 
mother when she was there. She shadowed Lady Pendre. 

“I wish Dad would let me take Vicky away for a bit before 


210 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


I go north,” Eustace said suddenly, “she wants a change— 
she’s looking awfully white.” 

“So you do really mean to go north?” asked Pamela. 

“You heard what I said to Dad.” His tone was curt. 

“Vicky could go away for a change without you. Bar- 
bara’s always wanting to have her.” 

“Barbara!” 

“Well, why not? She’s her sister. And she can always 
manage Vicky.” 

Pamela had adopted Lord Pendre’s attitude toward Vicky, 
regarding her as a troublesome, unreasonable, refractory 
child. 

“And she’d make her see what a perfectly splendid chance 
this is for her to marry really well!” she added. 

“Barbara wouldn’t look at him herself, so I can’t see how 
she’ll be able to persuade Vicky to!” 

So Pamela too was strongly ranged on Lord Pendre’s side 
in the matter. If the event had ever caused her the slightest 
disappointment she had completely recovered from it, and 
now she saw what an excellent thing it would be for her own 
happiness that Vicky should marry and leave Pendre. It 
would prolong her own sojourn there, consolidating her posi¬ 
tion, which had of late seemed a little precarious owing to 
the undisguised hostility of Vicky, in which perhaps Eustace 
had some share. She blamed Vicky for this untoward state 
of things, and she felt that with her departure she might 
attain to a greater degree of intimacy with Eustace himself. 
The prospect of returning to the gloomy, shabby little house 
in West Kensington, to her father’s indifference and her step¬ 
mother’s scarcely-veiled dislike, was repugnant to her. Her 
present aim was to make herself indispensable to Lord 
Pendre. He ruled the house in small things as well as in 
great; his word was law, his power far-reaching. Witness 
this sudden, inexplicable capitulation of Eustace after his fiery 
rebellion. There was something in it of course—some hidden 
influence at work. Pamela never gave other people any credit 
for that simplicity of action of which she was herself in¬ 
capable. 



SURSUM CORDA 


211 


Still, the thought of Eustace intrigued her. She too won¬ 
dered where he had been that morning, returning with his face 
aglow as if with some secret happiness, his deep-set eyes 
flaming like lamps in a dim cavern. He attracted her more 
and more; she longed to know the thoughts of his heart, 
his ambitions, his ideals. But he would never speak to her 
of intimate personal things. He kept that for Vicky, of 
course. . . . 

“What Vicky wants is to be let alone!” he exclaimed, with 
almost a show of anger. “Her nerves are all wrong. And 
of course all this fuss about Soames is making her ten times 
worse. It’s monstrous that the subject can’t be dropped. If 
Vicky were my daughter I should forbid her to marry Soames 
even if she wanted to!” 

He flung down the words almost like a challenge. 

“Oh, I’m sure she means to marry him in the end,” re¬ 
marked Pamela, tranquilly, “but Vicky always likes to make 
a scene—she wouldn’t be happy otherwise. I think Fa is 
quite right to be firm.” 

It irritated Eustace almost beyond bearing when Pamela 
called Lord Pendre “Fa.” Neither he nor Vicky could en¬ 
dure it. He bit back the ironical words that rose to his lips 
and said very quietly: “I think you’re wrong, Pamela. Vicky 
hasn’t the slightest intention of marrying Soames.” 

“Why are you against it too, Eustace ? Why don’t you en¬ 
courage the idea? She listens to you.” 

“Because I’m not going to stand by and see her make an 
unholy mess of her life. And she’s so young—she’d be 
miserable. Even the Catholic Church, I believe, annuls a 
marriage when it can be proved that one of the parties has 
been forced into it against his or her will.” 

“But you’re not Catholics—luckily—” said Pamela. 

Lady Pendre listened in silence to the little heated discus¬ 
sion. But when Pamela said: “But you’re not Catholics, 
luckily,” her face changed; her features seemed to stiffen, the 
line of her lips was more sternly compressed. 

“Vicky would have given in ages ago if Fa hadn’t shown 
her he was so keen about it,” Pamela went on. 


212 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“Then, wasn’t it rather a pity—?” Eustace gave her a 
shrewd, searching glance. 

“Fa always shows his hand—he’s so outspoken.” Pamela 
spoke hurriedly, aware that she was getting into difficulties. 
“And really it has it advantages—one knows just where one 
is.” 

“One certainly does,” observed Eustace, significantly. 

He made her feel the rebuke in his tone, which was never¬ 
theless so cold and courteous. He was questioning her right 
to interfere, to mix herself up in family matters. 

Furthering Vicky’s marriage, put her in the wrong with 
Eustace. She wanted more and more to gain his love, but 
now, alas, they were on opposite sides, and she had little hope 
of winning him over to her point of view. 

What had he been doing this morning? Her curiosity as 
to his movements was very largely tinged with jealousy. Had 
Miss Tresham anything to do with this unusual manifestation 
of matutinal energy? She had seen the girl, of course, and 
knew that she was universally admired. Her beauty, of the 
striking conspicuous kind, her lonely position, her devotion to 
her mother, her life of almost complete seclusion, had given 
credence to a kind of picturesque legend in the neighborhood. 

4 

When Soames wrote to say that he intended to remain away 
rather longer than had originally been planned, Lord Pendre 
consented to his wife’s request that she should be allowed to 
take Vicky to London for the months of June and July. 

Irritated by the mute, rebellious attitude of his youngest 
child, Lord Pendre agreed that a change of some kind had 
become absolutely necessary. That scar on Vicky’s forehead 
was a constant reminder of his own ill-temper and violence, 
and though he tried to assure himself that she had richly 
deserved all she had got, it was not a very pleasant thing to 
look upon. The short hair brushed vigorously off her fore¬ 
head displayed it, too, almost unnecessarily. 

In London Vicky would have every opportunity of seeing 


SURSUM CORD A 213 

Barbara’s perfect home, and this would impress upon her the 
desirability of making a wealthy important marriage. 

Barbara at least was not deficient in common-sense. She 
knew from personal experience the advantages of a devoted 
husband and a large income. Gerard Hammond adored her, 
and made a dutiful admiring son-in-law and one who was 
also extremely useful in financial matters. If he could not 
rely upon his wife’s wisdom, Lord Pendre felt that he could 
at any rate depend absolutely upon Barbara’s. He would 
write and tell her how badly things were going at home, and 
give her a hint, too, as to the best policy to pursue with regard 
to Vicky. 

He did not pause just then to analyze Eustace’ sudden 
change of front. He believed that his son had intended all 
the time to take his place in the firm, just as he believed that 
Vicky really meant to marry Soames. They just wanted to 
show their independence, that was all, and then when the 
time came they could be relied upon to- act reasonably. Still, 
he must keep his eye on Eustace, and see that no fresh out¬ 
side influence had come into his life. That Tresham girl, 
for instance. ... No doubt she was aware what a good parti 
he would be. Well, let him only catch Eustace going to Glen 
Cottage—that was all! . . . 


CHAPTER XII 


Lady Pendre Remembers 

1 

B RAVING discovery—which would have been an awkward 
thing at such a critical juncture of their family affairs— 
Eustace rose very early almost every day and walked down 
to the Catholic Church at L'lyn. He never knew whether 
Nella Tresham had noticed his constant presence at Mass, 
morning after morning; he made no effort to* speak to her. 
She was no longer his sole nor even his principal motive for 
going there. 

Other people might have noticed him—people who were 
aware that he was Lord Pendre’s son. His rapt face, his 
devotional attitude of almost breathless attention, could not 
but attract and interest a casual observer. 

When he contemplated his own future now, it seemed more 
than ever nebulous and uncertain. He couldn’t bring the two 
things together—his wish to please his father by entering the 
firm, and his resolve to become a Catholic. It might be that 
the one action would stand in the way of the other. He was 
not sure how far his father’s prejudice would go, but he was 
afraid it might go a long way. Perhaps he would disinherit 
him. Perhaps he would have to choose between religion and 
the great possessions which he only desired as a means to an 
end. And even now he felt little doubt as to his own choice. 
Every day he felt drawn more and more closely to the Catholic 
Church. Even if it meant never renewing the ancient tradi¬ 
tions of Pendre, he was aware that he would have sooner or 
later to become a Catholic. 

The time was drawing near for their departure to London. 
214 


LADY PENDRE REMEMBERS 215 

Eustace felt that he must certainly speak to Nella before he 
went away. Just to tell her that he was going—to explain 
why he would not be seen for perhaps some months to come, 
in Llyn church. 

The morning dawned grey and wet. Far off, the Welsh 
mountains were wrapped in ragged scarves o-f cloud that al¬ 
most obliterated their summits. Although there was very 
little wind, the sea had a deep, booming, almost tragic sound. 

May had decked the world with gleaming showers of emer¬ 
alds. The hawthorn was everywhere breaking into snowy 
bloom. In the Pendre woods the crimson flame of rhodo¬ 
dendrons contrasted delightfully with the young brilliant 
verdure of bracken and beech, the scented blue sheets of wild 
hyacinths. Even the fields that dipped down to the shore 
were of a more definite emerald. Everything had a more 
emphatic note of color. 

Eustace slipped out of the housfr-there was never anyone 
about at that hour. He ran swiftly along a path till he got 
clear of the Pendre woods. The morning air was very soft 
and humid, but it held, too, the salt tang of the sea, that 
gave it a heady quality. The rain that touched his face was 
of the soft, drenching kind, more like mist than rain. He 
hardly heeded it in his eagerness to go forward. ... 

Not only to-day for the wonderful half hour that he would 
spend in Llyn church, but also because he was going to force 
a meeting with Miss Tresham. Probably little would be said 
on either side, and nothing that was not strictly commonplace 
and conventional. Nevertheless, it would be surely a mo¬ 
mentous encounter for them both. . . . 

The priest was late That morning. Some of the congrega¬ 
tion, unable to wait longer, went reluctantly away. Their 
various avocations recalled them, and Father Sheldon, know¬ 
ing that most of the Catholics were working people, was in¬ 
variably meticulously punctual. 

When he came in he was wearing black vestments. The 
clock struck half past eight. Only two people were present 
besides Eustace—a man and his daughter who kept a little 
shop in Llyn. Perhaps something had happened to delay Miss 


216 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Tresham on her way thither. It might be that she would 
come in presently. Odd that she should miss Mass just the 
very morning when he had made up his mind to speak to 
her. . . . 

The black vestments informed Eustace that the Holy 
Sacrifice was to be offered for the dead. He knew enough 
about Catholicism now to grasp that it was to be said for the 
souls who were suffering in purgatory. He had found an 
ancient Latin Missal at Pendre, and from a diligent study of 
it had acquired a certain knowledge of the liturgy. He had 
been surprised to find such a book at Pendre, but in all 
probability his father was unaware of its existence; he had 
often in the old days purchased large quantities of books at 
sales without inquiring into their content. Somehow or other 
the vast library must be filled, and anything in the shape of 
an old binding always attracted him. 

Eustace lingered a little when Mass was over. Presently 
he rose and went out, standing by the porch and looking down 
upon Llyn and the sea, that moaned, grey and misty, beyond. 
It was still raining, and the grass, trees, and shrubs dripped 
with moisture. 

As he stood there, the priest came out and Eustace raised 
his hat. He had never spoken to him before; indeed this was 
the first time they had met thus face to face. 

“Good-morning, Father,” he said simply. 

“Good-morning. It’s Mr. Wingrave, isn’t it?” said Father 
Sheldon. 

He had been told that of late young Wingrave had con¬ 
stantly been present at Mass. Being aware of Lord Pendre’s 
uncompromising attitude toward the Catholic Church—an at¬ 
titude for which some people imagined there must be a special 
personal reason based upon an ancient grudge—he had been 
slightly astonished at the fact, and had wondered what had 
brought the young man thither. 

“That was a Mass for the dead, wasn’t it?” said Eustace. 

“Yes. I said it for Mrs. Tresham. She died this morn¬ 
ing,” answered the priest. 


LADY PEND RE REMEMBERS 217 

He raised his hand and made the sign of the Cross. Eu¬ 
stace mechanically followed his example. 

He turned very pale. The news had given him a shock. 
“Died this morning?” he repeated. 

“Yes. I was with her. She had a sudden heart attack soon 
after midnight. Miss Tresham came over as soon as she 
could and fetched me in the car. I’m afraid it made me a 
little late this morning in consequence. I was sorry—so 
many people have to go at the half hour.” 

“I am sorry . . . I’m most awfully sorry ...” Eustace 
stammered over the words. “And Miss Tresham?” His lips 
were dry; he could hardly articulate. 

“She’s bearing it very wonderfully. You see, I was in 
time to give her mother the Last Sacraments. Extreme Unc¬ 
tion—the Viaticum.” He looked at Eustace, wondering a 
little if these words conveyed anything to him. “Miss Tres¬ 
ham was so afraid we shouldn’t get there in time—she had 
to come herself—there was no one to send. And of course it 
was very hard on her—having to leave her mother just then 
when they thought she could hardly live through the next 
half hour.” 

“What time did she come for you?” asked Eustace. 

“A little before three. It was a long dark drive for her. 
There was no moon—it was raining.” 

Eustace thought of her traveling along that lonely dark 
road, full of fear that her mission might be of no avail and 
lest they should not arrive back in time to find her mother 
alive. But for herself she would have had no sort of phys¬ 
ical fear such as might have assailed so many women. There 
would only be the dread of not obtaining the last consolations 
of religion for the one who was so dear to her. 

It seemed to Eustace that he was learning more about her— 
learning too just how wonderful and courageous she was. 
While his heart ached to be with her, he felt the distance 
between them acutely. He had no right even to go and offer 
a commonplace sympathy. He was quite outside her life; 
they seemed to have no meeting-ground at all. . . . 


218 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Now he was conscious that the priest was watching him 
with compassionate eyes. 

“You see, I know Miss Tresham slightly,” he explained. 
“Enough to realize what this must mean to her.” 

“Yes—she was passionately devoted to her mother. And 
now she is absolutely alone in the world except for Mrs. 
Welby. They’ll be badly off, I’m afraid—Mrs. Tresham had 
a small pension that died with her.” 

“I wish I could have seen Miss Tresham,” said Eustace, 
“but I know her so slightly it wouldn’t be possible. Perhaps 
you’ll tell her, though, that I was here at Mass—that you 
told me about it. Say how sorry I am, and that I’m thinking 
of her—yes, and praying for her.” 

His deep eyes sought the priest’s with something of appeal. 

“I’ll certainly give her your message when I next see her,” 
said Father Sheldon. 

He held out his hand and Eustace grasped it. 

“Thank you, Father,” he managed to say. Then with an 
effort: “Have you been here long? I mean, were you here 
before we came? Did you know Pendre when it was 
Catholic ?” 

“No—I’ve only been here since the Armistice. But my 
predecessor, Father Richmond, often spoke to me of old Mrs. 
Chittenden. I know he used to hope that some Community 
would buy the place and keep up the Catholic tradition.” 

“I must be going,” said Eustace. “I’m late as it is. For¬ 
give my keeping you like this in the rain—I wanted to hear 
more. You see, my coming here has had to be kept rather 
secret. Perhaps you’ve heard that my father’s very strongly 
opposed to the Catholic Church—I don’t think he’d like it if 
I were to become a Catholic. But I found it difficult to stay 
away from Mass—after the first time. It was more wonder¬ 
ful than I thought.” 

He made the confession with a frankness and sincerity that 
touched the priest. 

“God bless you and help you to find your way,” said Father 
Sheldon. “I know it’s often very hard for the convert. But 
if I can ever be of any use to you, you must let me know.” 


LADY PEND RE REMEMBERS 219 

“Thank you, Father. And you won’t forget to give my 
message to Miss Tresham?” 

“I promise to remember.” 

They shook hands again and Eustace hurried away. Father 
Sheldon walked into the presbytery deep in thought. Perhaps 
the young man with the great possessions, whom Jesus look¬ 
ing upon had loved, might have resembled this young Win- 
grave. A pale sensitive face, glowing enthusiastic eyes, 
eager, ardent, loving. . . . 


2 

Eustace ran down the path to the road. It was already 
half past nine, and it would take him nearly three-quarters of 
an hour to get home even if he went by the short cut across 
the wet fields. In any case he would be very late, and could 
hardly escape being questioned narrowly about his doings. 
But somehow he cared little for that to-day; his thoughts 
were so supremely occupied with Miss Tresham and her sud¬ 
den bereavement. 

She would be alone in the world except for Mrs. Welby. 
Living thus in complete seclusion at Glen Cottage, she could 
have had little opportunity for forming friendships. And it 
might be, even in her present straitened circumstances, that 
she would not be able to continue to live there. Eustace was 
filled with anxiety at the thought of her future. 

How thankful he was that he had lingered behind that 
morning, and had stopped to greet Father Sheldon. It might 
be possible in future to hear news of Nella through him. He 
might form a link . . . 

He had liked Father Sheldon, with his narrow dark ascetic 
face, his piercing eyes. Some day he would perhaps want to 
consult him on his own account. The priest had reminded 
him that sometimes the way was hard for converts, and look¬ 
ing at the matter from a purely worldly point of view Eustace 
felt convinced that for himself it would be extraordinarily 
hard. It would mean perhaps forfeiting that goodly inheri¬ 
tance which had suddenly become so important and valuable 


220 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


in his eyes. He had been prepared to work and slave for 
Pendre, as he would never have consented to work and slave 
for himself. The renunciation of this part of his great pos¬ 
sessions would certainly mean a great deal to him. His 
father wasn’t likely to forgive him should he decide to be¬ 
come a Catholic. His bitter animosity had flashed out afresh 
that night when he had spoken of the Treshams and of the 
chapel that used to be at Pendre. Surely, he must have some 
definite reason for this violent hatred. . . . Perhaps his 
mother knew something ... he would find an opportunity 
of asking her. But of course she knew! That little scene 
on the night of his home-coming rose up before his eyes and 
seemed to be invested with a fresh significance. She did 
know, but he dared not break through that icy reticence of 
hers by demanding the truth. 

Once he had thought and spoken of going out in the world 
and seeking the truth about religion for himself. Now he 
perceived with a sense of astonishment that it had not been 
necessary to go so very far; it had been here, close to him 
and as it were waiting for him, all the time. Perhaps Al¬ 
mighty God gave an answer quickly when the seeker was 
sincere in his desire. Ask and ye shall receive . . . There 
had been no need for him to set forth upon an arduous pil¬ 
grimage. Yet his gesture of appeal had been so slight, his 
prayer so formless, he could hardly realize that the answer 
had come, that his quest was already at an end . . . 

And then quite suddenly there came to him a vision of Nella 
Tresham driving down to Llyn in the rain and darkness of 
the spring night, leaving the bedside of her dying mother at 
a moment when she must surely have found it most difficult 
and even heart-breaking to do so. Not knowing whether she 
would ever see her again alive. Bent only on fetching Father 
Sheldon to give her those Rites which alone could fortify and 
strengthen the soul in its hour of sharpest need. There had 
been no one else to send, and so she had gone herself, braving 
the storm and darkness, fearful only that she might be too 
late. 

There must surely have been some urgent need for her 


LADY PEND RE REMEMBERS 


221 


action, something imperative that could not be denied. It 
was necessity, not choice, that had constrained her to go. 
The task was one that had to be achieved for her mother’s 
sake, at all costs. She could not let her go forth on that last 
tremendous and lonely journey without the consolations the 
Church could give. 

Eustace quickened his steps. All the time he was thinking 
of Nella Tresham driving, driving with fearful speed through 
the darkness of the spring night to fetch Father Sheldon. . . . 

3 

Lord Pendre had left home early that morning to motor to 
Chester, where he had business to accomplish, consequently 
his son’s late return escaped his knowledge. 

When Eustace came into the dining-room he found himself 
alone there. His mother, Vicky, and Pamela had finished 
their breakfast and departed. He sat down, unable from agi¬ 
tation and excitement, to eat much, but a servant brought 
some hot coffee, which warmed and revived him. 

He had not been there very long when the door opened and 
Lady Pendre came into the room. 

“Oh, you’re back, Eustie dear. I was beginning to be 
anxious.” 

He jumped up and kissed her. “Good-morning, Mother. 
I’m sorry to be late.” His voice was soft, almost wistful. 

She sat down by the window. It was still raining. A great 
chestnut tree showed its superb pyramids of silver blossom 
just beyond the lawn. Through the open window came a 
scent of lilac-bloom perfumed like sweet almonds. Black¬ 
birds and thrushes were singing lustily in the grove of trees 
to the right of the house. It was a day of spring, of re¬ 
juvenation, of growing, blossoming sweetness. But Eustace 
was thinking of Nella—alone with her dead. 

It seemed to him that his mother was waiting for him to 
speak, to offer perhaps some explanation of his absence. 
She was aware by this time that he was in the habit of taking 
long walks regularly before breakfast, irrespective of the 


222 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


weather. Some new health-fad, her husband was inclined 
to suppose—a method of keeping fit. 

He said abruptly, without preliminary: 

“Mrs. Tresham died early this morning. There was Mass 
for her at Llyn—in the Catholic church.” 

As he spoke he fixed his dark eyes upon her face. 

“Mass!” she repeated. She lingered over the word—oh, 
it was no strange one to her, he felt convinced of that! 

. . . Her eyes met his, full of a nameless fear and 
dread. Then:—“Eustie, how do you know all this, my dear ?” 

“I was there,” he answered briefly. “In church.” 

“You were there?” 

So he had not erred in his seeking. Her prayers had not 
been in vain. She clasped her hands, and waited for him 
to speak. 

“I’d better tell you. I’ve been wanting you to know. I 
felt, after the way you kissed my crucifix that night, you 
couldn’t hate it all so much as I used to think. But you’d 
better keep it from Dad for the present if you can. I’m 
afraid it’ll only annoy and worry him. He still wants to rule 
me body and soul as he did when I was a schoolboy.” 

She stirred restlessly. “Yes—tell me.” 

He came over and sat down by her side. 

“I’ve been going to Mass regularly for some weeks past. 
That’s what made me often so late in the morning. I couldn’t 
always get back in time. Once I’d begun to go, it was difficult 
to keep away, and so difficult, too, to leave when one was 
there. You know what Catholics believe—that Our Blessed 
Lord is really present in the Holy Sacrament of the Altar. 
Without the faith I suppose it would be impossible to be¬ 
lieve it, but when one has the faith it’s perfectly simple 
.... and after a time you not only believe, you know. 
You remember, I told you when I first came home that I 
wanted to go away and find out about religion—about Our 
Lord. I was afraid it would be tremendously difficult. . . . 
But I wasn’t allowed to wait. I didn’t have to seek. . . . 
it was here all the time. Close to me. Waiting for me.” 

His eyes shone with a strange almost mystical fervor. 


LADY PENDRE REMEMBERS 


223 


“But you haven’t—?” she began. She could not utter the 
WOrdS. 

“Oh, I haven’t taken any steps—I think I should always 
have told you beforehand. I’m still most awfully in the dark 
about many things. Until to-day I hadn’t even spoken to a 
priest, but I like the one at Llyn. He seems an understanding 
kind of chap—I believe he did awfully well in the War. I 
stopped him this morning and asked him if that hadn t been 
a Mass for the dead. The vestments were black, there was 
no Gloria, no blessing. It was all solemn and strange and 
different. And then he told me it was for Mrs. Tresham, 
who died this morning.” 

Then a very unexpected thing happened, so swiftly and 
spontaneously that he could hardly believe the evidence of 
his own eyes. He even found himself thinking involuntarily: 
“Did she ? .... Did she really?” For when he uttered 
those words his mother lifted her hand and very rapidly made 
the sign of the Cross, touching her brow and breast. Surely 
he must have been dreaming, and yet he could have sworn 
that she had indeed made that significant gesture, now so 
familiar to him. ... 

“I am sorry. That poor little girl— She broke oft. . 

“She went down at three o’clock this morning all alone in 
the car to fetch Father Sheldon. It was very plucky of 
her on such a dark wet night—the going must have been 
pretty bad. But he said she was only afraid of not getting 

back in time.” His eyes shone. 

Lady Pendre made no comment. She held herself very 
still, as if she were purposely restraining some deep and 
powerful emotion. Her eyes had that deep brooding look 
which always seemed to give an increased loveliness to he 

face, making it unlike other faces. . , 

“But they did get back in time, thank God! continued 
Eustace. “The priest was able to give Mrs. Tresham the 
Last Sacraments!” 

“The Last Sacraments . . . ” 

“I felt frightfully ignorant when he told me all this. You 
see, I didn’t quite know what it meant, nor why it shou 



224 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


be so important. I felt it must have almost broken Miss 
Tresham’s heart to leave her mother for any reason in the 
world, when she knew that she was actually dying and that 
she might never see her again alive. But that just showed 
—didn’t it?—how urgent and necessary it was.” 

Lady Pendre made no reply. She listened attentively; 
her eyes fixed upon her son’s face. 

“Mother, do you know anything about it? Do you know 
just what it all means?” 

He paused, waiting for her reply. The room seemed filled 
with a kind of breathless hush, pregnant with expectancy. 

“You can read about it in any book of Catholic doctrine,” 
she answered. “The dying person makes a confession if 
able to speak, and receives absolution and the Holy Viaticum. 
Then he is anointed on all his members—eyes, ears, nose, 
mouth, hands, and feet. That is called Extreme Unction. 
To be made ready.” Her voice sank a little. “And even if 
he’s already dead when the priest comes he can still be given 
the last Absolution. That can be done as long as two hours 
after death because even the doctors don’t know the precise 
moment when the soul leaves the body.” 

He only said slowly, deliberately: 

“One would like to die like that. Prepared. . . .” 

He thought of the Lamp, symbol of faith, that had burned 
through long centuries of change in the ancient chapel at 
Pendre. Many, many times a priest must have entered the 
doors of that house to bring the last consoling and fortify¬ 
ing Rites to its dying inmates. Had he come thus for the 
last time, or would there be in the far future a renewal of 
spiritual life and energy at Pendre? . . . 

Lady Pendre’s thoughts were very far away. Memory 
revived for her a scene, clear in every detail, wherein she 
herself was lying, a sick child of thirteen or fourteen years 
old, in a small room at the top of an old, high house in 
Brussels. And as she lay there, very weak and ill, there was 
presently a little stir in the passage outside, the door opened, 
and a group of persons entered carrying candles. They were 
followed by a priest murmuring Latin words. His hands 


LADY PEND RE REMEMBERS 


225 


were clasped above Something that he held against his breast. 
Not far from the bed someone had prepared a little table as 
an altar, with candles that made a brilliant patch of light in 
the dusky room. There were flowers there too, a crucifix, 
and a stoup of holy water. And on this altar the priest placed 
his precious Burden—a silver Pyx containing the Blessed 
Sacrament. He genuflected, and then approached the bed¬ 
side .... Even now she could remember the odor, sweet, 
strong, pervasive, of the holy oils, as the priest anointed her 
eyes, ears, nose, tongue, hands and feet. She could just 
remember receiving the Holy Viaticum before she sank back 
upon the pillows, scarcely conscious and only dimly aware of 
what was passing around her. It was as if she had been 
watching some scene that was being enacted at a great dis¬ 
tance. But they had told her just before the arrival of the 
priest that very soon Our Blessed Lord, Jesus Christ, would 
come to fetch her. He wanted her in His Heaven, and she 
must not be afraid to go with Him because He loved her 
and His Mother would be with Him. She had shut her eyes 
and waited, conscious of an eager curiosity, and hoping that 
the wonderful moment would not be too long delayed. Per¬ 
haps Our Lord could not come just yet—there were other 
little children to be fetched—He must have so much to do, 
since people were dying every moment all over the world. 
Then she had known no more, but had sunk back into a pro¬ 
longed unconsciousness that descended upon her like a deep, 
deep sleep. And afterward, when she awoke, she had cried 
a little because the nurse told her that she was much better, 
that she was going to get quite well. The Holy Viaticum 
often cured people. . . But she could remember weeping, 

because she felt cheated, defrauded of some glorious perfect 
adventure. 

Eustace’ voice interrupted her dream. 

“Have you any books here I could study?” 

She roused herself, staring at him almost vacantly. She 
had been so far away, both as regarded time and place. 
Brussels—more than thirty years ago—the chimes from Ste. 
Gudule’s twin Gothic towers sounding melodiously through 



226 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


the evening air. The priest entering the room—the sound of 
his voice murmuring Latin words—the gleam of the silver 
Pyx upon the altar with its flowers and lights—the hush, the 
expectancy, the perfume of the Holy Oils, the ineffable 
sweetness of the Viaticum .... Oh, taste and see that the 
Lord is sweet. . . . 

She felt, for the first time for many years, the sharp 
hunger as of one starved. 

She gazed at Eustace now, with terrified eyes. Could he 
discern her thoughts, her memories, with that young relent¬ 
less penetrating vision of his? Could he look into her heart 
now, and know its ultimate faithlessness, and all that it held 
of denial and apostasy? His words spoken weeks ago rang 
in her ears with a sound of inescapable doom:— Vicky 
thinks it's because one of us must have offended God. .... 

“No ... I haven’t any. . . .” 

“I suppose Catholics think a great deal of those things— 
Extreme Unction—the Viaticum—?” pursued Eustace. 

“I suppose they must.” 

Now she was thinking of Mrs. Tresham, who a few hours 
ago had gone forth upon that last supreme journey. And 
she compared the dead woman’s life with her own. Mrs. 
Tresham had been poor. She had lacked all the luxuries of 
life, and perhaps even many of its necessities. The three 
women from all accounts lived a very frugal even penurious 
existence at Glen Cottage. Their only luxury, which had 
proved of such infinite benefit to them last night, had been the 
little two-seater which Mrs. Dyrham had given to Nella, 
paying too for the petrol and upkeep. Lady Pendre had had 
these details from Ernest Soames. From the same source 
she knew that Mrs. Tresham, though still a young woman, 
barely forty years old, had passed through some years of 
very severe suffering. She had never complained; she had 
borne it all with perfect resignation, her gaiety had never 
failed nor the laughing fortitude with which she had endured 
all the pain and distress of chronic illness. Her faith had 
controlled her life, ordering all her ways; she had made of 
it a living rule. She had not only borne her Cross but she 


LADY PEND RE REMEMBERS 


227 


had loved it. Such a gallant soul as that had surely little to 
fear when death came. For her there would be not only re¬ 
lease but reward. . . . 

Lady Pendre longed to get up and leave the room. Eustace’ 
observant attentive eyes seemed to pierce her. Was he 
determined to win the truth from her? He was obviously 
excited by the events of the morning and was in a state of 
agitation and mental exaltation. He was sensitive too and 
had been deeply impressed by all that he had heard. It might 
be that those impressions would affect his whole future life. 
What part human influence played in them she could not as 
yet determine—her knowledge was too slight. This son, in his 
reticences and withdrawals, had made no confidant of her. 
And it was better so. She could not go on suffering like this 
in silence, knowing all that he desired to know and yet re¬ 
fraining “even from good words . . . .” 

He rose from his seat and came toward her. 

“Mother darling,” he said impulsively; “I’m afraid I can’t 
let it end there. I must see Nella Tresham again. I must 
go to Glen Cottage.” 

Nella Tresham .... she knew by the very tone of his 
voice as he uttered it how dear that name was to him. This 
woman, who stood to him also for the things of the Faith 
toward which his soul was surely journeying, was calling 
to him. And Lady Pendre envied her—this child, bereft of 
mother and fortune. . . . 

“I don’t see how you can possibly visit her before we go 
to London. You hardly know her. You’ve only seen her that 
once haven’t you, Eustie?” 

She put out her slim hand and laid it upon his rough 
brown coat sleeve. 

“Twice,” he corrected, “unless you count the times in church, 
but I hardly think she knew I was there. But we only spoke 
that second time, when the car broke down and I helped her.” 

So it had not gone any further; he had not been seeing her, 
as sometimes she feared that he had. Feared, not for his 
sake—it was just what she wanted for him—but because of 
her husband’s inexorable anger. 


228 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“You might go and inquire—” she suggested. 

His face wore a look of relief. At least from her, whose 
opinion counted most with him, there would be no opposition. 
He had a wish, so fierce that it was almost painful, that she 
should see Nella. For surely she would love her. Surely she 
would take her to her heart. 

“How I wish you could have come with me. But you’re 
right—I’ll just go and inquire. Perhaps at any rate I shall 
be able to see Mrs. Welby. It isn’t as if I were quite a 
stranger to them.” 

“And if you do see Miss Tresham,” she said quitely, “I’d 
like you to tell her that I’m so very sorry .... give her 
some kind message. And if there’s anything I can do to 
help—” 

He bent down then and kissed her. 

“Thanks most awfully,” he said, visibly touched by her 
words. “I’m sure she understands why—why we’ve held 
aloof like this. Catholics do still meet with that kind of 
treatment in England, you know. Not often, but one runs 
up against it sometimes. Coldness, and not calling on them 
or inviting them to one’s house. Perhaps I’ll go over this 
afternoon.” 

“Shall you say anything to Vicky?” Her voice was a 
little wistful. 

“I’ll do just as you wish about that.” 

“Then I think perhaps .... not for the present.” 

He went out of the room, leaving her alone. Never had she 
found it so difficult to keep that silence to which she was 
pledged. She had longed to pour forth her treasures of 
knowledge, so as to help him just now when he had need of 
help. And never had he been so dear to her. 

To this woman perhaps would be entrusted the task of 
guiding him upon that way, at once so difficult and so simple, 
so austere and so sweet. This other woman would lead him 
forward. She felt a pang of envy that pierced her like 
a sword. It should have been her task—hers only. Yet she 
had relinquished it of her own free will. Deliberately, inten¬ 
tionally, with full knowledge and consent. Those were the 


LADY PEND RE REMEMBERS 


229 


marks of a mortal sin; her rebellion had lacked nothing of 
them all. And it seemed to her that after twenty-six years 
of dulled and drugged conscience, her punishment was only 
just beginning. She was to be punished through Eustace. It 
might be when he knew all, as surely he must know it one of 
these days, that she would forfeit his love. He would never 
say a word of reproach, but she would read his judgment and 
her own condemnation in those young relentless accusing 
eyes. 

Yet God—the God she had betrayed and denied—would 
surely console her with the conversion of her son. . . . 


CHAPTER XIII 


At Glen Cottage 

1 

LEN COTTAGE stood a little way back from the road, 
and was approached by a public pathway, which led 
from thence to Moth Hill Park. Behind it there was a belt of 
dark trees, growing on slightly rising ground. Mingling with 
the somber boughs of the pines, a group of larches showed 
their vivid emerald showers. There was a view across the 
Pendre woods to the sea. Moth Hill Park could be seen in 
the distance, a fine grey Jacobean building situated on the 
lower spur of a hill, with the river widening into a great lake 
just below it. 

A premature dusk was falling, for the day had continued 
wet, and a mist had come up from the sea. The damp earth 
gave forth a delicious fresh scent that mingled with the 
perfume of wild flowers and blossoming lilacs and laburn¬ 
ums. There was no wind, and a deep silence seemed to sur¬ 
round and envelop the little place as Eustace approached it. 

He walked up the narrow muddy path, and stood for a 
moment beside the wooden gate that opened into the strip of 
garden. It was carefully tended, and an immense clump of 
wall-flowers, varying from bright orange to deep crimson 
velvet gave forth a powerful almond scent that seemed to 
fill the air. 

He looked up at the house. It was tiny, and built of red 
brick on two floors. Above there were three windows, and 
below two with a door in the middle. Roses not yet in 
blossom but displaying fantastic clusters of buds, clambered 
over the walls in luxuriant profusion. The windows were 
closely shuttered, and only through a small fanlight above the 

230 


AT GLEN COTTAGE 231 

front door was there visible a faint illumination from some 
lamp within. 

He went up the narrow flagged path to the door and rang 
the bell. Although he rang very softly, the sound seemed to 
reverberate through the house with a loud disturbing clang 
that woke the echoes. Then came a little interval, during 
which Eustace began to lose courage altogether and to wish 
that he had never embarked upon the adventure. 

They would be certain to think it very odd of him to come 
—he was such a stranger—his visit at such a time was an 
outrage, an intrusion ... to offer his sympathy would seem 
like an impertinence. . . . 

Then he heard footsteps approaching. The door was 
opened, and he saw Mrs. Welby standing there, looking at him 
with her kindly dark eyes, that this evening were full of dis¬ 
tress and sorrow. 

“Mr. Wingrave!” she said. 

Eustace held out his hand. 

“I came to ask after Miss Tresham. How is she?” 

“Nella’s very tired, she’s resting now. How did you hear ?” 

“Father Sheldon told me after Mass this morning. And I 
wanted her to know that I was thinking of her—I’m most 
frightfully sorry—” 

He broke off abruptly. There was a queer lump in his 
throat, and his eyes were shining. 

“Thank you—it’s very kind of you. Won’t you come in?” 

“Oh no, no! . . .” 

“You can talk to me as well inside the house as out,” said 
Mrs. Welby; “besides, it’s raining—you’re getting wet. Do 
come in, Mr. Wingrave.” 

He entered the hall, and she closed the door very quietly. 
Above his head there hung a small oil lamp, which cast a 
scant and obscure illumination upon the scene. The hall was 
small and square, the floor covered with a worn linoleum. 
The walls were whitewashed, and an oak chest and a couple 
of chairs completed the furnishing, indeed there was little 
room for anything more. Everything was worn and old, but 
very neat and scrupulously clean. 


232 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Eustace followed Mrs. Welby into a small room on the 
right. There was no fire, and it felt chilly. He saw a great 
many books, although none of them looked very new, some 
chairs, a sofa, a polished table, flowers in pots and vases. 
A curious old inlaid bureau of Venetian workmanship was the 
only piece of apparent value; probably it had formed part of 
Mrs. Tresham’s Italian inheritance. 

“I shan’t call Nella,” said Mrs. Welby; “she’s lying down, 
and I want her to sleep if she can. She’s tired—she was up 
all last night.” 

“She was none the worse for her drive down to Llyn?” 

“Oh no, when anything’s got to be done Nella never thinks 
of herself. She was simply splendid last night.” 

“Yes, yes ... I heard.” 

“The funeral will be on Monday. And Mrs. Dyrham wants 
her to go and stay with her for a bit after that. She asked 
her to go at once, but Nella refused. Between ourselves, 
she’d rather be here.” 

“I’m sure she would. But perhaps a little change ...” 

“She doesn’t like the thought of leaving me here alone. 
Not that I should be nervous, but we don’t keep a servant— 
Nella and I do all the work between us. I’m afraid, though, 
we shall hardly be able to afford this cottage now. Nella 
means to ask Mr. Soames to take it off our hands. I shall be 
sorry to go away,” she added. 

“I’m sure Soames will do all he can.” 

“Yes, but he’s away now, and we can’t find out when he’ll 
be back. People have been very kind, especially Mrs. Dyrham 
—she came over directly she heard the news, to ask if she 
could be of any use. Wonderful for her on such a wet day, 
though she had the closed car. She took Father Sheldon 
back to Llyn—we were really quite puzzled how to send him— 
I couldn’t bear the thought of Nella’s driving him back. Poor 
child—she broke down when it was all over. You never saw 
her with her mother, Mr. Wingrave. It was a wonderful 
devotion—they were more like sisters, and yet you would 
have thought sometimes that Nella was the little mother! 
Such care she used to take of her.” 


AT GLEN COTTAGE 


233 


Her eyes filled with tears. She looked older to-day, and 
worn with sudden grief. He could guess the measure of her 
own devotion to the dead woman. 

“Mrs. Dyrham will perhaps see that Miss Tresham doesn’t 
want for anything, in the future?” he asked. Maddening 
anxiety upon this point assailed him. He pictured the two 
women alone, adrift, practically penniless. 

“Yes, but she’s a very firm woman—she likes things done 
in her own way or not at all. Still, Nella’s fond of her, and 
I’m thankful to think that if the worst comes to the worst 
she’s got a good friend and a place to go to. But Nella’s an 
independent little mortal, and she isn’t worldly—she wants 
so little.” 

“I don’t think Mrs. Dyrham’s a Catholic, is she?” 

“No—but she’s always associated a great deal with 
Catholics—she was a great friend of old Mrs. Chittenden’s— 
the people who had Pendre before your father bought it. I 
think Mrs. Chittenden, who was a very holy woman, used to 
have hopes that she might be converted. She was very young 
then, and Mrs. Chittenden was old, but there was a great 
friendship between them. However, Mrs. Dyrham’s never 
come over, though she admires the Church very much, and of 
course she’s quite tolerant. And she was very fond of Mrs. 
Tresham—it’s been a blow to her too. You see, it was so 
very sudden. Mrs. Tresham had been ill for a long time, 
but she didn’t seem worse yesterday—she got up as usual. 
Then about midnight she had this sudden attack. Luckily 
Nella was sleeping in the room with her—she’d done that 
lately for fear she should want anything.” 

Eustace felt an inward gratitude to Mrs. Welby for recon¬ 
structing so much of the happenings of last night for him. 
She seemed to take it for granted quite simply, that her 
recital would interest him. Her mechanical matter-of-fact 
voice robbed the story, too, of its more poignant characteris¬ 
tics. Yet, even while she was speaking he could not help 
remembering that she had probably lost the best friend she 
had in the world, and that her own future must be plunged 
in uncertainty. But she did not seem to have any wish to 


234 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

dwell upon this aspect of the case; her thoughts were full of 
Nella, and her single definite aim was apparently to “keep up” 
for Nella’s sake. She brushed her tears away abruptly, as if 
she were ashamed of displaying even this much of human 
weakness. 

“My mother sent a message to Miss Tresham to tell her 
how very sorry she was—to ask if there was anything she 
could do to help—” said Eustace. 

“It’s very kind of Lady Pendre, and I’ll tell Nella,” said 
Mrs. Welby, with a distinct touch of dryness in her tone. 

For had they not been living for more than two years at 
Glen Cottage, during which time Lady Pendre had taken no 
notice of them at all? She had almost seemed unaware of 
their existence, yet that younger girl of hers would have 
made a nice campanion for Nella in a neighborhood that 
boasted of so few young people. 

Nevertheless, it didn’t seem quite fair to blame Eustace 
Wingrave for his parents’ sins of omission; he had a nice 
face, with a very kind steady look about the eyes, and he 
seemed really anxious to obtain news of Nella. Hadn’t he 
walked some miles in the rain to inquire for her ? And secretly 
Mrs. Welby wished that romances really happened in real 
life as they did so easily between the covers of novels. She 
sighed .... 

“We are going to London on Saturday,” said Eustace, “all 
of us except my father. I expect we shall be away about two 
months.” 

All of a sudden he felt that by going away just now, he 
would lose sight of Nella forever. If she and Mrs. Welby 
left Glen Cottage it might be that they would move away from 
the neighborhood altogether, and it was quite possible that he 
might not even be able to discover their whereabouts. The 
thought filled him with sadness. And yet if he had seen Nella 
this evening—of all evenings—what could he have said to 
her? She was almost a stranger to him, and now the recent 
tragic loss she had sustained, her own great grief, would 
surely set an infinite distance between them. He of all men 
had least right to approach her now with words of consola- 


AT GLEN COTTAGE 


235 


tion and sympathy. It was impossible for him to dissociate 
himself utterly from his family in the matter—he couldn’t 
explain to her now, how deeply he regretted their action. . . . 

With his own future so nebulous, so uncertain, what could 
he say ? And it was not, assuredly, the moment for words of 
love. Nella would certainly refuse to listen to them. 

‘‘You must tell her that I came,” he said presently, “and 
that I’ve been thinking of her all day. I was there at Mass, 
you know, though I didn’t of course realize till afterward that 
it was for Mrs. Tresham. Father Sheldon told me.” He 
lowered his voice. “Mrs. Welby, I’m only a heretic, but I’m 
so thankful I was there.” 

He fixed his great burning eyes upon her. 

“Perhaps you won’t always be a heretic,” she observed 
calmly. 

“I’m afraid it would be very difficult for me to be anything 
else. When I think of my father, it seems impossible.” 

“Is he so very prejudiced?” 

“Bitterly prejudiced. Almost as if he had some grudge—” 

“Perhaps he has—one never knows. People often come 
into collision with the Church, you know. And then they hate 
her—just for her strength—her changeless attitude.” 

2 

She had hardly finished speaking when the door opened 
and Nella herself came into the room. 

Eustace was so startled, so embarrassed, that he rose to his 
feet and stood there tongue-tied. What would she say when 
she found him there?—what indeed would she think of him 
for coming at all, intruding thus upon her sacred grief? 
Panic seized him; he longed to escape. 

She was very pale, and looked as if she had been crying. 
But her lips parted in a wan little smile as she held out her 
hand to him and said: “I thought I heard voices.” 

Her voice was natural, though it sounded a little tired. 
Her bright abundant hair was slightly disheveled. Eustace 


236 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


had never seen her without a hat before, and he felt as if 
he were looking at her from an entirely new angle. 

“Mr. Wingrave—how kind of you to come!” 

“I came to ask after you,” he stammered, “and Mrs. Welby 
invited me to come in. I am going now—” 

“No, don’t go,” said Nella. “Sit down and stay a little 
longer.” 

“But I’m intruding—I oughtn’t to be here.” He felt the 
horrible awkwardness of the situation. Oh, why had he ever 
come? Even so, he had never intended to enter the house— 
that was entirely Mrs. Welby’s fault. . . . 

But Nella was simple in her grief. And all day she had 
been very busy, seeing first one person and then another, 
occupied with the dreadful practical side of the funeral ar¬ 
rangements. Thus her loss, which had only taken place a few 
hours ago, seemed to be centuries old. Long years steeped in 
the heaviness, the weariness, of sorrow. She had never felt 
so physically tired in her life; she was too weary almost, to 
be conscious of pain. That mute white presence upstairs 
seemed to rebuke her—for the first time in all her twenty 
years—for her hardness of heart, her want of love. . . . 

“Don’t go,” she said again, seeing him hestitate, “Welly 
and I are only frightfully tired.” 

She leaned back in her chair. His presence did in some 
obscure way comfort her. It seemed even to break up that 
frozen calm of hers—to thaw the ice that encompassed her 
heart, just as if there were something warm and glowing in 
his sympathy. 

She had already seen Mrs. Dyrham and one or two other 
people, all kind in their respective ways, eager too with offers 
of help. Mrs. Dyrham had even wept a little, Nella had 
envied her those facile tears. But Eustace’ presence made 
her want to cry like a little tired helpless child. 

Mrs. Welby left the room. The presence of a third person 
could only conduce to constraint and platitudes. Besides, she 
had things to do, domestic duties to perform. The supper, 
for instance . . . And Nella mustn’t be allowed to take her 
usual part in the proceedings. She couldn’t eat, poor child, 


AT GLEN COTTAGE 


237 


but a good cup of tea would warm her. She must go to bed 
early. Mrs. Welby had a practical nature; she liked to be 
occupied; she didn’t disdain hard and prosaic tasks. Her 
pots and pans were a refuge when anything went awry. And 
to-night the thought of Nella’s future preoccupied her. 

If only this young Wingrave, who seemed to have taken 
such a fancy to Nella, had been an ordinary young man, not 
somebody’s only surviving son, heir to a great property and 
to a new title! These new people always wanted their sons 
to marry into the old families. They asked for that rather 
than money. It was a pity, too, that Lord Pendre should 
avowedly detest the Catholic Church, detest it, too, in such 
manner that his enmity seemed to betray a bitter personal 

grudge. m 

Left alone, Eustace and Nella sat in silence m the chilly 
quiet room. The small lamp that stood on one of the tables 
gave such a wan furtive illumination that it seemed to dis¬ 
pense shadows rather than light, and it made the girl look 
almost ashen pale. Her eyes were sunken and heavy. Her 
little hands were clasped inertly in her lap. Her only coherent 
thoughts were, however, connected with Eustace. She seemed 
to be saying to herself: “I’m glad he came. I m glad Welly 
made him stop.” 

If she had paused for a moment to consider the slightness 
of her acquaintance with him, the little they knew of each 
other his presence must at once have seemed equivocal and 
ambiguous in that house of mourning. But she was only able 
to realize in a vague way that he had come to offer his 
sympathy and that he didn’t seem at all like a stranger. She 
envied Vicky Wingrave for having such a brother. 

Presently she said: 

“I hope you’re not cold? It’s cold in here. 

“I’m not cold, thanks. But you—” 

“I don’t feel anything,” she answered. 

The cold was in her heart; it could not touch her body. 

“We must see each other sometimes,” he said with sudden 


courage. 


238 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“But I think we shall be leaving here soon. Didn’t Mrs. 
Welby tell you?” 

“She said you might have to.” 

“I may go and live with Mrs. Dyrham for a time, but I 
don’t want to. Only she talks of going to Rome in the autumn 
and I should like that. Italy was my mother’s country—she 
always said she belonged there more than in England. I’ve 
always wanted to see it.” 

She looked at Eustace, and wondered if indeed they would 
be permanently separated in the future. She had only spoken 
to him once before in her life, so why should this thought in¬ 
timidate her—robbing her of something of her high courage? 

“I’ve always wanted to see Rome too,” he said. “I hadn’t 
any opportunity when I was in Italy.” 

“What I’m so afraid of is that Mrs. Dyrham mightn’t care 
to have Mrs. Welby too. And I couldn’t give her up. She’s 
lived with us for such ages. And she was devoted to my 
mother.” 

It did not seem unnatural that she should be thus confiding 
her hopes and fears to him. Something in his grave, ob¬ 
servant, attentive eyes encouraged her to proceed. 

“When I was little—too little to do things—Mrs. Welby 
did everything for mother and myself. One can’t forget that.” 

“No.” 

“I’m afraid, though, that she isn’t simpatica to Mrs. 
Dyrham.” 

“But surely—” he said. 

He knew the lady in question but slightly; she was not 
among the few intimates at Pendre. Perhaps she, too, re¬ 
gretted the passing of the old order, the ruthless invasion of 
the new. Perhaps, too, she resented the treatment meted out 
to her friend, Mrs. Tresham. Eustace tried to recall her—he 
had only seen her once or twice. In appearance she was 
hardly prepossessing, being of massive, almost masculine, 
proportions, with a formidable manner, accentuated by a deep 
bass voice. He judged her to be a hard upright woman, 
autocratic, just, but not too sympathetic perhaps. Still, she 


AT GLEN COTTAGE 239 

would surely be kind to Nella, and would not turn her old 
friend and companion, Mrs. Welby, adrift. . . . 

“You see, I’m telling you things about ourselves. But you 
mustn’t let me bore you.” 

“I’m not in the least bored. I’m only most awfully grate¬ 
ful to you for letting me be here,” he assured her. 

Always in his thoughts there was the wish he dared not 
express in words, that she should ask him to go up and see her 
mother. As he had never seen Mrs. Tresham he had a strong 
desire to do so now. It was not only a cold curiosity that 
prompted him; it was the wish to see Nella’s mother. To know 
what she was like. He could form no mental picture of her 
at all. And he felt that to see her would in some sense bring 
Nella a little nearer to him. 

She seemed to read his thoughts, for she leaned forward 
and said almost in a whisper: 

“Would you like to come upstairs and see my mother be¬ 
fore you go?” 

He flushed almost guiltily. 

“Yes. But not—if you’d rather not.” He felt now as if he 
had made the request aloud, so swiftly and unerringly had she 
interpreted his thoughts. 

“I should like you to see her,” she said. 

She led the way up a steep short flight of stairs. At the 
top there was a tiny square landing about the size of the hall, 
with four doors leading from it, three in front and one at the 
back. The little oblong building was more spacious within 
than one would have imagined from its modest exterior. 

The silence that reigned there was complete, almost un¬ 
canny. It spoke of death. 

“A nun is watching her now. Father Sheldon asked two to 
come from the convent at Llanthwy. You see, Mrs. Welby 
and I couldn’t watch all the time, especially at night.” 

She opened the farthest of the three doors. The bed had 
been moved into the middle of the room and some tall candle¬ 
sticks were grouped around it. By the light thrown by those 
pyramid-shaped flames Eustace could discern the figure of a 


240 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


nun, black, heavily veiled, kneeling in prayer. Her face 
was hidden in her hands. 

But though his mind registered this impression mechani¬ 
cally, he felt that he had never taken his eyes from the stark 
white figure lying on the bed, covered with a sheet that in¬ 
dicated the elongated attenuated slenderness of the form 
beneath. He was looking at Mrs. Tresham for the first and 
last time. Her hands, clasping a rosary, were crossed upon 
her breast—the pale delicate hands of a woman forced in life 
to an unnatural idleness. But it was always her face that 
held his attention so powerfully. It was slightly emaciated 
but very beautiful, and had the carven look of a statue. The 
black lashes made two lines of dense shadow beneath the long 
black penciled brows. Her hair pulled back rather loosely 
from her low square brow was almost black. She looked 
absolutely Italian and quite young—almost a girl—so his 
thoughts now ran. Too young to be Nella’s mother. But then 
everything had come to her early. Marriage, motherhood, 
widowhood, and now death. In life he thought she must have 
been extraordinarily beautiful and interesting-looking—a 
study in black and white, with the blood of two dominant 
races in her veins. The lips were perfectly moulded, and 
seemed to smile faintly as if at the sudden very simple solu¬ 
tion of a profound mystery. 

Eustace had never seen death in so perfect a guise. His 
one wish was that he could have heard her speak. Voices 
were so revealing. But he could imagine hers to have been 
low and soft, with perhaps a thrilling note in it. 

Nella wasn’t in the least like her. She must have taken 
after her English father. She was modern, capable, self- 
reliant, unafraid. . . . 

Nella approached the bed, sprinkled the body with holy 
water, and made the sign of the Cross upon the forehead. 
Her eyes were very bright. She kissed the cold hands almost 
passionately. 

Then she turned to Eustace and whispered : 

“At the end she didn’t suffer at all. It was over so quickly 
—she sank to sleep like a child.” 


AT GLEN COTTAGE 


241 


He sensed something strongly protective in her attitude. 
It had been difficult sometimes to remember that she wasn’t 
the mother—so Mrs. Welby had told him—and listening to her 
now, he could well believe it. 

He moved forward, and bending down kissed the dead 
woman’s hand with a kind of shy reverence and homage. He 
longed for her to know that he loved her daughter and hoped 
to marry her. If only she could have known it before she 
died! It might have removed from her mind any natural 
anxiety as to Nella’s future. But he seemed hardly to have 
been definitely aware of it himelf until this moment. Of 
course he had fallen in love with Nella—had thought of her 
almost continuously—but the question of marriage had seemed 
altogether too remote when his own career was so undecided. 
But he felt now that he would need Nella’s help to restore 
Pendre to its ancient splendor; she must be by his side when 
the first Mass was said, and the Lamp before the Tabernacle 
was once more lighted. 

Nella was kneeling beside the nun, praying. Her face was 
raised a little, and the flickering light of the candles fell upon 
it, revealing it as very calm but paler than usual. Her bright 
hair showed beneath the black lace veil she had hastily put on 
before entering the deathchamber. It made a kind of brilliant 
halo about her brow. 

Impelled by some force he could not explain, Eustace went 
across to her and knelt by her side. He could, however, only 
remember the little prayer in the Missal, and he said it now 
softly to himself: 

“Eternal rest give unto her, O Lord. And let perpetual 
Light shine upon her . . . May she rest in peace! . . .” 

They both rose and he followed Nella out of the room. 
Outside, the spring dusk was deepening and a thick mist hung 
over the woods and obliterated the sea. 

“Thank you,” he said, “I shall realize her better now. I 
wish I could have seen her when she was alive. She must 
have been very beautiful—she’s extraordinarily beautiful 
now. I know how you must have loved her.” His eyes were 
fastened upon her pityingly. 


242 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“Yes, she was beautiful and good. I’m sure she must be 
in Heaven now/’ said Nella. 

They went downstairs and Nella opened the door. A great 
draught of damp salt air came in, and the girl stood there, 
drinking it in almost thirstily. 

“Come out a little. I’ll walk back with you,” said Eustace. 
“I’m sure you need some fresh air.” 

3 

It was just what she did need, for she had been in the house 
all day, and her head ached with the close confinement of it. 
She accepted Eustace’ offer eagerly, only pausing to throw an 
old black cloak about her shoulders. On her head she still 
wore the black lace veil that made such a charming setting 
for her bright hair. 

“I hope you will be able to come to the funeral,” she said. 
“The Requiem Mass will be at Llyn on Monday at nine, and 
then we shall take her away to be buried with my father at 
Kensal Green.” 

“I only wish I could come. But we’re leaving for London 
on Saturday; I’m afraid there’s no chance of my being able 
to remain behind.” 

“Shall you be away a long time?” 

“Two months at least.” 

“Two months ... I wonder where we shall be then.” 

“I hope I shall find you here, or at Mrs. Dyrham’s 1” 

She shook her head. “One can’t think of going on living 
in the same way after this. I sometimes think I’d like to 
work.” 

They walked on toward the woods. It was not actually 
raining now, but the air was heavy with mist and moisture. 
In the deep grass of the meadows the silver moon-daisies 
made pale patches of light. The bracken and beech-trees 
showed their wonderful brilliancy of green, broken here and 
there by the crimson flame of a thicket of blossoming rhodo¬ 
dendrons. There was something sweet and very fresh and 
pure in the air, not quite free from the salt tang of the sea. 


AT GLEN COTTAGE 243 

A thrush was singing its silver-flute notes from a neighboring 
tree. 

“We are really going away on my sister’s account,” Eustace 
continued. “She hasn’t been very happy lately. You see, Mr. 
Soames wants to marry her, and my father is very anxious 
for it to take place, but she doesn’t wish for it at all.” 

“Marry her!” She was genuinely surprised. “Your sister? 
But he’s miles too old for her!” 

“So she thinks, but my father’s very keen about it, and he 
simply won’t believe that Vicky isn’t. He likes people to think 
as he does,” he added naively. 

“I’m glad, then, you’re going to take her away. Don’t let 
her marry him—I have an idea she’d be so very miserable—” 

“Yes. Especially as she’s in love with another man, but my 
father won’t hear of that.” 

He was purposely showing her a glimpse of his own home 
life. It wasn’t all so straight and smooth as she might sup¬ 
pose. Often people who were very badly off were inclined 
to think that money had the power of eliminating all temporal 
annoyances. 

“And I’m not sure that even if I had been here I could have 
come to the funeral,” he went on. “I’m placed rather 
awkwardly, you know.” 

“Yes. I’ve thought you must be. Still, Welly and I were 
glad to see you so often at Mass. Mother knew about it too— 
I told her—she was praying for you . . . And I’m sure 
that she’s still praying,” she added, very simply. 

He was profoundly touched by this disclosure. He took her 
hand and raised it to his lips. Their eyes met, and it seemed 
to him that Nella’s were filled with a quick, tender sympathy. 
Perhaps she realized that he was standing shivering upon the 
doorstep, envying the fortunate happy ones that were enjoying 
the warmth and light and welcome within. She was sorry for 
him, despite his great possessions; she could still find it in her 
heart to pity him, perhaps to pray for him. . . . 

Presently she said: 

“I think I ought to go in now. Mrs. Welby will be wonder¬ 
ing where I am.” 


244 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


They turned back, following the narrow public foot-path 
that ran from Glen Cottage to North Hill Park. The air was 
full of the fragrance of wild-flowers, a clump of hawthorn 
gave forth a powerful almond-scented odor. A light breeze 
had sprung up now, dispersing the mist. The deep distant 
booming of the sea sounded more loudly than before. 

At the little wooden gate leading into her garden he paused 
and took her hand again in his. 

“Good-bye/’ he said quietly. “But this can’t be the end, 
you know. We must see each other again. Don’t let me lose 
sight of you. You—” he looked at her wistfully, “you have 
done so much for me. More than you’ve any idea of!” 

Oh, it could not be without its ultimate significance in 
both their lives—this strange, beautiful, sad hour they had 
spent together! Surely, it marked an epoch for -them both. 
They could not go away and forget each other utterly. 

“Good-bye,” she said. 

She lingered at the gate as he walked away. Soon he was 
lost to sight in the blue dusk of the spring evening. Mrs. 
Welby’s voice from within called softly: 

“Nella! Nella!” 

She went slowly back into the house. Eustace’ visit seemed 
to have come and gone like a wonderful dream. She could 
hardly realize that it had actually happened, and yet she felt 
inexpressibly comforted and consoled. He had given her just 
the human touch—the momentary human contact—which she 
knew now that she had needed in her great sorrow. He had 
in some obscure manner identified himself with her grief. 

For the first time it crossed her mind that this man perhaps 
loved her. This one for whom her mother had prayed. . . . 

4 

Since the night when Soames’ inadvertent allusions to the 
Catholic associations and traditions of Pendre had evoked 
such plain and vigorous speaking from his father, Eustace 
had never been in any doubt as to Lord Pendre’s attitude 
toward the Church which had begun to play such an ex¬ 
tremely important part in his own spiritual life. 


AT GLEN COTTAGE 


245 


It wasn’t the easy half-contemptuous intolerance common 
to many Englishmen; there was something deeper than that 
in his hostility, as of a fierce smouldering resentment and 
antagonism, ever ready to leap into flame at the slightest 
provocation. And no man, least of all his father, could betray 
such a deep passionate hatred without cause, and it was for 
this cause that Eustace vainly sought. 

Had Lord Pendre ever come into contact with Catholics to 
his own hurt? Had he some secret personal grudge against 
the Church? Had it ever interfered with his own private 
affairs? Had he ever found himself in direct opposition to 
its rigid far-reaching laws ? There were certain points, 
especially connected with marriage, upon which the Church 
could and did exercise authority over the non-Catholic. Such 
as, for instance, when she insisted that the children born of a 
mixed marriage should be educated in the Catholic Faith. In 
such a case as that, promises were exacted from the non- 
Catholic, and in default she refused a dispensation for the 
marriage to take place. And if, notwithstanding this, the 
ceremony was celebrated in a Protestant church, it was in her 
eyes no marriage at all—the conditions for the administration 
of the sacrament of matrimony had not been fulfilled. 

Or was it possible that his father instead of being the in¬ 
jured one had been the injurer? Was his the somber hatred 
of one who had deliberately wronged another? . . . 

Eustace had considered it a distinct hardship for the non- 
Catholic parent to be compelled to have his children educated 
in a faith in which he did not believe, and which perhaps he 
disliked. But now as he walked home through the woods 
that lay between Glen Cottage and his home, through glades 
blue with wild hyacinths, he discovered, almost to his dismay, 
that his mind had undergone a subtle subconscious change of 
which he was only just aware. That it should have been 
effected without his consent, almost without his knowledge, 
astonished him. What secret inexorable process had wrought 
this drastic change of attitude within him? He fought for an 
instant against these new convictions that had apparently lain 
dormant in his subconsciousness, now to be imbued with 


246 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


energy and activity by the scene through which he had just 
passed. Yet it wasn’t only because of Nella, and the attrac¬ 
tion she had had for him from the first moment of their meet¬ 
ing. His heart had undoubtedly gone out to her then; it was 
still most surely in her keeping; she was the woman he loved 
and whom he intended one day to marry. She would encour¬ 
age and strengthen his own imperfect efforts to attain to a 
higher spiritual standard. But the change sprang from deeper 
roots than that, and he probed his heart with an almost fever¬ 
ish energy to discover them. He must solve the problem, now 
if ever, and perhaps in solving it he would attain to a clearer 
knowledge of himself and of his ultimate aims in life. 

Suddenly, illumination came. He was back in the little 
bare, white-washed Catholic, church at Llyn. He was him¬ 
self kneeling there, filled with a quite reverent curiosity. The 
early hour, the few worshipers—all devout and attentive— 
the priest at the altar. . . . 

Sursum corda . . . The bell rang. Sanctus, Sanctus, Sane - 
tus . . . He could see the priest genuflecting, then lifting up 
with his hands the pale and shining Host for all to worship. 
Had he not felt from that moment that life could never be 
the same again? His heart had been pierced, the sword of 
faith had been plunged into it, violently, painfully, bringing 
with it the first influx of grace. Words drifted across his 
mind. Ye have not chosen Me, but I have chosen you . . . 
Even now that call was in a sense a call to martyrdom. The 
martyrdom of the senses . . . The Holy Spirit burned its 
way as with a flame into the soul that was scorched and seared 
and wounded, yet ineffably consoled and strengthened. And 
because of that sharp mystical experience Eustace could see 
the Divine Purpose running like a thread of gold through 
life, making all things clear and simple, however difficult. 
And he saw why the Church took these elaborate precautions 
for safeguarding the faith of her little children, so weak, so 
easily led astray. Even the psychologists would tell yOu of 
the necessity of saturating the child’s subconsciousness with 
ethical ideals, with knowledge of goodness and truth, from 
the first dawn of its reason. ... In the moral or intellectual 


AT GLEN COTTAGE 


247 


order you took no chances; how much more vital, therefore, 
it was to guard the child spiritually from all contact with 
error or heresy. . . . 

His change of attitude then was deep-rooted in his new 
faith. He saw that it had almost unconsciously taken pos¬ 
session of him, permeating his life and thoughts, subtly chang¬ 
ing his own standards and ideals. And then a sudden rush 
of thankfulness filled his heart. Oh, he had had no long and 
difficult and arduous quest—his very first gesture had received 
instant response! God was infinitely merciful to those who 
turned to Him with one pitiful entreaty for guidance into the 
way of truth and peace. . . . 

And perhaps—he liked to think that too—he owed some¬ 
thing to the prayers of the woman who had just died. . . . 

5 

In the gallery at the top of the great staircase at Pendre he 
met his mother. Somehow her presence to-night disturbed 
him; he wanted to be alone with his crowding thoughts. He 
needed a little solitude in which to consider the change that 
had come into his life, altering its aims and standards. Its 
connection with Nella—its probable effect upon his own 
destiny. 

She stopped him. “Did you see her, Eustie ?” 

“Yes, Mother.” 

“Won’t you come into my room and tell me about it?” 

Her voice held a note of entreaty. He had the feeling that 
she didn’t want to be left out. It was as if she guessed that 
something important had happened to him. 

He followed her reluctantly into her sitting-rocyn. In its 
beauty, its comfort and luxury, its show of pretty, delicate 
and costly things, it formed an almost painful contrast to the 
little chilly austere room in which Mrs. Welby had received 
him. 

He tried to hide his reluctance in regard to the suggested 
interview. Always when he talked confidentially to his 
mother he had the fear that she might repeat something of 
it to his father. And it was for this reason that he had never 


248 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


given her his complete confidence. Besides, when it came to 
the Catholic religion he could never be quite certain whether 
she shared Lord Pendre’s views or not. She displayed a re¬ 
serve and reticence that bewildered and baffled him. Did it 
spring from ignorance or from too deep and poignant a knowl¬ 
edge? What part had it played in her life before marriage? 
She knew something—of that he was certain—but when he 
attempted to approach her, to break through the wall of ice, 
she shrank back as if she feared that he might hurt her. . . . 

He sat there in silence. If she wished to know anything 
more she must question him. Otherwise he did not know 
where to begin nor what to tell her. Her curiosity might 
be confined to one or two simple points, easily satisfied. He 
hoped that this might prove to be the case. 

“Is she very unhappy?” asked Lady Pendre, after a long 
pause. 

So she was thinking of Nella. He was grateful to her for 
that; his face brightened a little. 

“No—I shouldn’t say that. Of course she adored her 
mother, and humanly speaking, it’s the most frightful loss and 
grief that she could possibly have had. But it seemed to me— 
don’t misunderstand me, though—that there was a great deal 
of joy mixed up in her sorrow. Joy for her mother’s 
sake. ...” 

He looked at Lady Pendre* eagerly, anxiously, as if entreat¬ 
ing her to understand what was, on the face of it, so para¬ 
doxical. 

She said, speaking very slowly and meditatively: 

“I quite understand. You see, Mrs. Tresham must have 
made what Catholics call a good death. For them that is 
always a great consolation.” 

“Yes. I’m sure that’s what Miss Tresham feels.” 

Already it was becoming unnatural for him to say Miss 
Tresham; she was always Nella now in his thoughts. 

He relapsed into silence. His mother, too, seemed wrapped 
in profound thought. 

Presently she looked up and said: 

“Did you see Mrs. Tresham?” 


AT GLEN COTTAGE 


249 


“Yes.” A dull flush darkened his face. “She looked very 
beautiful—quite young. Very white, with black hair. More 
Italian than English. Her daughter isn’t at all like her.” 

“They didn’t think it strange of you to go over there?” 

“No—they took it quite for granted. I gave your message. 
I was afraid of intruding, but Mrs. Welby asked me to go in. 
And then Miss Tresham came down and talked to me. She 
came out with me for a little walk—I thought the air would 
be good for her. She’d been shut up in the house all day. 
She’d already seen one or two people. Mrs. Dyrham went 
over there quite early—directly she heard the news.” 

“And the funeral ?” 

“It’s to be on Monday. I suppose there’s no chance of my 
being able to stay here so as to go to it?” 

“Oh, don’t ask, please, Eustie,” she said, in hurried entreaty. 

“Would it be so very fatal ?” he inquired cynically. 

“It would displease your father. And just now—when 
everything’s so unusually difficult—” 

“He is creating the difficulties,” said Eustace, rather merci¬ 
lessly. “Why can’t he accept Vicky’s decision?” 

“He thinks he knows best,” she answered. 

Eustace rose from his seat, and stood looking down upon 
his mother. 

“I have a question to ask you,” he said. 

She waited. Her heart sank a little. Sensitively she divined 
the trend of his thoughts and aspirations to-night. And 
always, always, she told herself now, she had known that he 
would be the one . . . She felt that she had known it even 
when she held him as a tiny baby in her arms, and he had 
seemed to look at her with reproachful, accusing gaze as if 
she had deliberately withheld something from him—something 
that it was his right to possess. None of her other children 
had ever looked at her like that. She had tried to believe that 
it was only her imagination, but she could remember that one 
day his nurse had said to her: “What a queer way he has 
of looking at you, madam. ...” 

“How do you know so much about the Catholic religion, 
Mother ?” he asked. 


250 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


She had felt it coming, that pitiless, relentless question. 

"I . . . read a great many books about it at one time,” 
she answered evasively. 

She knew then that what he had wished to say to her was: 
“Were you ever a Catholic yourself?” But his sense of jus¬ 
tice was too strong to permit of his putting such a “leading” 
question to her. And perhaps, too, he would not dare run 
such a risk of wounding her. 

“I must go. It’s getting late. It’s time to dress. Your 
father will soon be back.” 

She rose and slipped out of the room, which communicated 
with her bedroom. No, she could not let him say the words 
which were trembling on his lips. But her very silence must 
convey the truth to him as surely and inexorably as any speech 
could do. . . . 

She was trembling from head to foot. He had so nearly 
elicited the truth from her. But now she realized that if he 
ever knew it, it would be difficult for him to forgive her, to 
exonerate her. Would he not look upon her sin with horror— 
the horror which a new-made convert was bound to £eel ? She 
would forfeit his love—the love that meant so much to her. 

She sat there, crouching on the sofa, growing cold with 
dismay and fear. The mills of God grind slowly. In her 
case they had been grinding for twenty-six years, and now 
the distant, dull echo of them had become audible to her. . . . 

6 

She had not been sitting there very long when she heard 
a knock at the door. It was almost a relief to her when, in 
answer to her “Come in,” the door opened to admit her hus¬ 
band's figure. 

“Well, Giselda! I'm rather late, but I got delayed. Has 
anything happened to-day?” 

He had been gone since the early morning, and perhaps he 
had not heard the news. She said quietly: “Mrs. Tresham 
died this morning. She had a sudden heart attack.” 


AT GLEN COTTAGE 251 

“Really? Well, I hope now they’ll leave the neighborhood 
altogether!” he remarked. 

“Hugo—I want you to know that Eustace went over to Glen 
Cottage this afternoon.” 

“Went over to Glen Cottage. Well, of all the —! What 
on earth for?” 

“To see Miss Tresham.” 

“But he hardly knows her! She must have thought it 
frightful cheek of him to intrude upon her at such a moment!” 

“I don’t think she did, though.” 

He frowned; the black brows looked very formidable. 

“Do you mean to tell me that he’s been in the habit of going 
to see her ? That there’s anything between them ?” His voice 
quivered with indignation. 

“No—I’m sure he’s only spoken to her once before. The 
day her car broke down on the Llyn road. But, Hugo—” 
She looked at him appealingly. 

“Well, what is it?” Though he spoke impatiently, his face 
softened a little. 

“You mustn’t blame me or think it’s my doing if Eustace. 

. . .” She paused. Even now it was going to be more 
difficult to tell him than she had feared. 

“What about Eustace ?” 

“If he should be the one. ...” 

“The one?” 

“To become a Catholic. Oh, I’ve always felt it was bound 
to come out in one or other of them . . . perhaps in all! 
And I can’t see him going that way without warning you—” 

In the silence that followed, she could almost hear her own 
heart beating. 

Heiburst forth angrily: 

“If Phip had lived, Eustace might have done any d—fool 
thing he liked! He was a younger son. But now—I’m not 
going to have it. Giselda—you must make that clear to him! 
He shall never have Pendre if he does. I’ve rescued it from 
Catholic hands, and it shan’t go back to them with my consent. 
Eustace’ll only ruin his own future.” 


252 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“If he’s really serious he won’t mind about that. And I 
think he is serious.” 

“He’s been talking to you about it?” 

“He asked me a few questions. Of course I didn’t tell him 
anything. I don’t want to lose his love . . . And then going 
there to-day, hearing about Mrs. Tresham’s death, has im¬ 
pressed him very much.” 

“It’s that girl’s doing!” exclaimed Lord Pendre, with rising 
anger. 

“No—to be fair to her, I don’t think it is. Eustace was 
thinking very deeply about religion when he first came back. 
And quite by chance, it seems—^f such things ever are chance 
—he has been led to consider the claims of the Catholic 
Church. ...” 

“I should have thought for your own sake you would have 
tried to keep him off that,” he said ironically. 

“I’ve done nothing, one way or the other. But even for my 
own sake—at the risk, too, of losing his love and even of his 
finding out all there is to know—I’d rather he became a 
Catholic.” 

He was silent. Did she regret? Did she feel remorse? 
All these years he had believed that the old claims of con¬ 
science had been lulled permanently to sleep. Wasn’t all that 
he had so abundantly given her sufficient to compensate for 
the loss of those things he had taken away? 

“I shan’t speak to him!” he said fiercely. “He’s never done 
me the honor of listening to any of my wishes! But if you 
like, you can tell him just what I’ve said. I’ll have no 
Catholics here. I won’t have him in the firm if he becomes 
one! I shall leave Pendre to Barbara’s boy. He’ll find him¬ 
self pretty hard up, and he’ll have to look to himself to earn 
his own living. It seems a hard thing to say, but I have 
sometimes wondered why Phip wasn’t the one to be allowed 
to survive!” 

She glanced up quickly and said: 

“Perhaps it was for this very reason. I’ve always felt that 
some day I should have to atone. I used to hope and pray, 


AT GLEN COTTAGE 253 

Hugo, that one of my children might fill the gap made by 
my . . . my apostasy. ...” 

Yes, she had voiced it now—that terrible word that forever 
haunted her. 

He stared at her. What strange thoughts she had, morbid 
thoughts that could give even to him—the most prosaic and 
hard-headed of business men—a sense of misgiving that 
almost amounted to a vaguely-formulated superstition. The 
gap caused by her own apostasy. . . . 

“Don’t you ever think that God may be against us in this ?” 
she said, lifting her dark eyes fearlessly to his face. “Don’t 
you think that Eustace’ conversion might be a special grace— 
a favor—a mercy? . . . Oh, wouldn’t it be a sign of that 
mercy if one of my children were permitted to become a 
Catholic—to light the Lamp that used to burn here before 
the Tabernacle?” 

His face grew rigid. 

“Your Church did her best to separate us. Once I thought 
it was going to win. But I fought it then and I’m going to 
continue to fight it now. Don’t make any mistake about 
that!” 

“You mean—even if I were dying?” Her voice faltered, 
and her eyes were wide with fear. She thought of Nella 
Tresham driving down at frantic speed to Llyn in the dark 
early hours of the spring morning to fetch the priest, leaving 
her dying mother so that she might be the means of securing 
for her the last most holy Rites of the Catholic Church. 

“If you die as you’ve lived, Giselda, my darling, that’ll be 
good enough for me,” he answered, taking her hand in his 
and holding it closely, firmly. 

“But will that be good enough for Almighty God?” she 
cried, almost wildly. 

He sat down beside her on the sofa, holding her hand, try¬ 
ing to soothe her. Never before had he seen her in such a 
strange state of mental exaltation, and he felt almost afraid 
of the consequences. That ass of a boy had been upsetting 
her—bringing her back, no doubt, idle gossip of Mrs. Tres- 
ham’s last moments! . . . 


254 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


But always he had been able to quiet these scruples of hers, 
to dominate them, and at least he could tell himself that where 
she was concerned, his methods had invariably been kind and 
patient. But now she seemed to be crying out for something 
he could not and would not give her. Ancient associations 
and memories and traditions held her strongly in their grip, 
and he felt that to fight them adequately, he would require all 
his strength and perhaps even all his love. For were they 
not things that, pushed to their uttermost limit, had still the 
awful power even now to separate them perhaps forever ? . . . 

He put his arms round her, his hard powerful arms, and 
drew her close to him, so that her dark head was against his 
shoulder. But he had never felt so far from her. Her spirit 
was being alienated from him, and how could he call that 
faithless that was supremely faithful to an earlier, more 
exigent ideal? . . . 

They sat there in silence. He was thinking bitterly of 
Eustace—this son who had always been rebellious and trouble¬ 
some, and who was now contemplating a final and irrevocable 
act of mutiny. What was passing in his turbulent, un¬ 
disciplined young mind? To become a Catholic—to marry 
Nella Tresham—perhaps having in view the hope of relight¬ 
ing that long extinguished Lamp at Pendre? But that at 
least he should never do. . . . 

Twenty-six years ago Lord Pendre had fought the Catholic 
Church for the possession of the woman he wished to marry 
—Giselda Kelsey. And he had won. Was this young son 
of theirs to be permitted to revive memories that would in¬ 
evitably torture his mother’s always sensitive conscience? 
Would his own ultimate defeat come perhaps through the 
hands of Eustace? 

Lord Pendre clasped his wife a little more closely, as if 
indeed he were holding her back from some unseen but very 
real peril. He tried to reassure himself that these fears were 
but idle. His wife was his, body and soul. . . . Nothing could 
separate them now. 


CHAPTER XIV 


Reappearance of Martin Sedgwick 

1 

E USTACE was walking along the Brompton Road one 
Sunday afternoon, when he felt a hand laid upon his 
shoulder. He turned his head sharply, and saw a tall, fair, 
boyish-looking young man whose blue eyes were regarding 
him whimsically. 

“Dreaming, as usual, Wingrave?” 

“Sedgwick! Where did you spring from? I thought you 
were in Malta!” 

“So I was till a few weeks ago. But now I’ve managed 
to wrangle something out of them at the War Office, so I shall 
be in London for a year or two.” 

“I’m very glad to hear it. Where are you staying? You 
must come and see us. But we’ve been up two months already 
and I expect we shall soon be going back to Pendre.” 

“We ?” Martin looked at him interrogatively. 

“My mother, Vicky and I.” 

“Vicky’s here, in London?” 

“Rather. Where are you going now, Martin?” 

“I’m going to the Oratory. Be a sport and come along, 
too.” 

They walked on in silence. Then Sedgwick said : 

“Did Vicky tell you that we met at Pendre last winter ? It 
was just before you came back, I remember. But I’m always 
unlucky—your governor spotted me at the station. Was there 
—much of a row ?” 

“I believe there was. But it was over by the time I got 
back.” Eustace grinned reminiscently. 

Martin’s young buoyant presence gave him a renewal of 

255 


256 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


hope for his sister’s happiness. Just lately there had been talk 
of his father coming up to London for a few days and bring¬ 
ing Soames with him. Lord Pendre was more than ever re¬ 
solved that the marriage should take place; he had quite per¬ 
suaded himself that Vicky wished for it, and had now almost 
succeeded in inducing Ernest to believe this too. 

One never knew, so Eustace’ thoughts ran, how far Vicky 
could be counted upon to hold out. And lately, too, it had 
seemed that Martin had passed out of her life forever. It 
might even be that he didn’t want her any more. . . . 

“How is she ?” asked Martin. 

“You must come and see for yourself. We shall find them 
in at tea-time.” 

“All right. I’ll come back with you after Benediction. But 
I’m afraid I shall be less welcome than ever now. You see, 
when I was in Malta I became a Catholic.” 

“A Catholic?” Eustace looked at him with something of 
envy. 

“Yes—I’d a great pal in the trenches who was one, and 
he got wiped out. There was only just time to fetch a priest, 
and he made me stay with him all the time. I saw then it was 
the only way to die, even if it made living more difficult. 
However, it doesn’t, as a matter of fact—it makes everything 
much easier. My sisters have been frightfully decent about 
it, I’m thankful to say. So many converts seem to have a 
perfect hell of a time.” 

“I’m most awfully glad,” said Eustace. 

“Glad ? Why, I imagined you were all dead against it! I 
thought it might even make a difference to Vicky.” 

“I’m not at all against it. In fact, I’ve been rather mixed 
up with it myself lately. I can’t tell you any more just now, 
but I’m up against it, and I feel pretty rotten sometimes!” 

“Then you really think Vicky won’t mind?” 

“I’m pretty sure she won’t. But, Martin—” 

“Yes? What is it? Has anything happened?” 

“I ought to tell you that my father’s trying to arrange a 
marriage between her and Soames. You remember that chap 
over at Moth Hill?” 


REAPPEARANCE OF MARTIN SEDGWICK 25 7 


“Remember him? I should think I did. Why, he must be 
twice her age! VickyM never look at him.” 

He spoke with smiling confidence. Yet once he had felt 
jealous of Soames, because he lived so near Pendre, and could 
see Vicky whenever he wished. He was always welcome— 
he was a favorite of Lord Pendre’s. 

“She won’t, of course, if she’s sure of you!” 

“But of course she’s sure of me. What on earth do you 
mean ?” 

“Well, she hasn’t heard a word of you all these months, and 
I can tell you that very strong pressure is being brought to 
bear.” 

Martin looked grave. “But she’s such a child!” he ex¬ 
postulated. 

“Anyhow, the governor’s dead set on it. That’s why we’ve 
stayed in London longer than usual. My mother did that— 
to keep her away. She was so miserable about it all, and 
I’m never sure if she’ll be able to hold out or not.” 

“But, Eustace—why didn’t you write and tell me? I’d have 
got leave and come back like a shot. He simply can’t force 
her into a marriage against her will.” 

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” rejoined Eustace, grimly, “and 
then Soames is awfully keen. She refused him, but then he’s 
never been allowed to believe that she meant it seriously.” 

“I wish I’d known,” said Martin. 

Something of Eustace’ uneasiness communicated itself to 
him. He longed to go straight to Vicky this very minute and 
carry her off out of danger. 

Rapidly he reviewed the position. He would certainly be a 
thousand times more ineligible, in Lord Pendre’s opinion, in 
his quality of Catholic than he had ever been before. His 
income in comparison with Soames’ might well be described 
as negligible. Everything was against him, and he couldn’t 
even be sure of Vicky herself. What if she were weakening 
under this strong resistless pressure? He knew something 
of Lord Pendre’s dominating, autocratic character. What if 
she were beginning to weigh the advantages of such a mar¬ 
riage with the brilliant worldly future it could offer to her? 


258 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

Soames was not an unattractive man—Martin had before now 
felt sundry twinges of jealousy when he thought of him and 
his kind elder-brotherly attitude toward Vicky. Many very 
young girls had been known to fall in love with men much 
older than themselves. Yes, he would have to contend against 
this solid, serious rival, and it seemed to him that he had 
little to offer in comparison. 

Eustace was satisfied that Martin cared for his sister. It 
wasn’t only a passing phase. He had been wise perhaps to 
warn him of what was proceeding. Delay was dangerous. 
Lord Pendre had a firm faith in the “continual dropping.” 
And very soon they would be returning home, when the sub¬ 
ject would probably come up for renewed acrimonious dis¬ 
cussion. Soames, too, might become more urgent and im¬ 
portunate. 

“And your mother ? What does she think about it ?” 

Eustace shook his head. 

“It’s difficult to say. But I don’t think she wants Vicky to 
marry him.” 

They had reached the Oratory now. People were mount¬ 
ing the steps and disappearing into the church. Eustace and 
Martin went in together. 

The Oratory was full of people. Above the Altar, upon a 
throne, the Host was visible in a gold Monstrance. The flame 
of innumerable candles made a blaze of glory about it, and 
yet it seemed to Eustace, as it had done long ago, that the 
Blessed Sacrament possessed a more brilliant and blinding 
quality of radiance than any other light that was there. 

He fell upon both knees and bowed his head. Then he 
groped his way to a seat. He had forgotten all about Martin 
and did not know if he were following him or not. People 
made way for the young man with his white tense face and 
dark burning eyes. He felt almost faint with emotion. . . . 

He had never before been present at Benediction, though 
he had seldom missed Mass on any morning since he had 
come to London. But his Catholic education was still incom¬ 
plete, and he had never talked to Catholics, thus he was still 
unaware that such a service existed. And even if he had 


REAPPEARANCE OF MARTIN SEDGWICK 259 

heard it named, its nature would still have been unknown to 
him. 

Perhaps to the non-Catholic, Benediction always seems 
simpler and more easily comprehended than the deeper mystery 
of the Mass. It is a service of pure worship, and the sing¬ 
ing, the clouds of incense that accompany it, seem to be borne 
up to Heaven by invisible angels. 

The Tantum Ergo was sung; the Benediction of the Blessed 
Sacrament was given to those kneeling and worshiping 
crowds; then a chorus of voices uttered the Divine Praises. 

Blessed be God. 

Blessed be His Holy Name. 

Blessed be Jesus Christ, true God and true Man. 

Blessed be the Name of Jesus. 

Blessed be His most Sacred Heart. 

Blessed be Jesus in the Most Holy Sacrament of 
the Altar. . . . 

Eustace heard no more. His mind dwelt lovingly upon that 
last phrase; he found himself lingering over the words, re¬ 
peating them softly to himself as if they held a mysterious 
and ineffable sweetness. 

Blessed be Jesus in the Most Holy Sacrament of the 
Altar . . . 

His way was quite clear now, whether he chose to follow 
it or not. To count the cost was to lose courage. But per¬ 
haps no one had ever entered that service, even as the most 
humble and obscure of doorkeepers, without being called upon 
to make immense sacrifices and difficult renunciations. One 
had to pay for the very privilege of serving. . . . 

And then he thought of the joyous, satisfied look in Martin’s 
eyes. He had been perhaps quick to respond to that first 
overpowering influx of grace. He had a kind of fine, reck¬ 
less courage, even in moments of physical danger. Eustace 
could picture him flinging aside his nets, his very means of 
livelihood, with the careless gesture of the early Apostles. 

“I’ve been hanging back too long,” he thought. 


260 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


2 

Martin followed Eustace up the softly carpeted stairs of 
Lord Pendre’s great London house. It was the first time he 
had ever been inside of it, and it struck him as being, if pos¬ 
sible, a trifle more luxurious and opulent-looking than Pendre 
itself. 

The two big drawing-rooms occupied all the front part of 
the first floor. They led from one to the other, and in the 
further one Lady Pendre and Vicky were sitting at tea. It 
was with a feeling of thanksgiving that Eustace observed the 
absence of Barbara and Pamela. They were both in the 
habit of visiting Lady Pendre on Sundays. There was no 
room for Pamela in the London house, and her headquarters 
now were at West Kensington, though she was not often at 
home. 

It was simply a matter of the most extraordinary luck, 
Eustace thought, that they weren’t there to-day—these two 
formidable supporters of Lord Pendre’s domestic policy for 
ridding his house of the turbulent Vicky. 

“Mother—I’ve brought a visitor!” 

Vicky had left her seat and was already running eagerly 
toward the approaching figures. 

“Eustace! Martin!” There was a glad note of welcome in 
her voice, but the words came breathlessly, almost as if she 
had only just succeeded in strangling a sob of relief. 

Lady Pendre held out her hand. “How nice to see you, 
Martin.” 

“I wonder if she’ll mind when she knows,” Eustace thought, 
vaguely uneasy and troubled, now that he saw his mother and 
Martin together. But surely she would welcome him, seeing 
in him the man who was to save her child from a loveless 
hateful marriage. 

But he felt that when the love of Martin and Vicky should 
declare itself openly and they became engaged to be married, 
he would inevitably acquire some definite clue as to his 
mother’s real attitude toward the Catholic Church. 

She might let him pass on into its portals without declaring 


REAPPEARANCE OF MARTIN SEDGWICK 261 


her position. But she could not surely permit Vicky’s mar¬ 
riage to a Catholic without in some sense revealing this secret 
of her own heart. 

Vicky was very silent, now that her first joyful greeting 
was over. From time to time she cast furtive glances at 
Martin, trying to decide how much or how little he had 
changed. His complete restoration to health and vigor was 
even more noticeable now than it had been last spring at the 
time of their surreptitious meeting in the Pendre woods. The 
full strength and vigor of early manhood gave even to his 
physical beauty—always so wonderful in her eyes—an added 
touch of perfection. Perhaps she had liked him better when 
he was weak and helpless and suffering; she had never felt 
that strange fear of him then which made her dumb in his 
presence now. Often in those first months of separation he 
had seemed a rather shadowy figure, embodying, however, a 
standard, an ideal, compared with which Ernest Soames fell 
most lamentably short. Seeing him now so unexpectedly, 
when she had almost given up hope of ever being allowed to 
do so again, produced in her mind confused impressions, fore¬ 
most among which was the resolution that she could certainly 
never marry anyone else. His presence revived many memo¬ 
ries, some beautiful, some terrible. The days at Pendre when 
he had hardly been able to endure the pain of his wound—a 
battered but heroic figure from whom she had learned what 
fortitude and self-control under suffering could mean. . . . 
That day when he had first kissed her. . . . The fatal morn¬ 
ing when her father had discovered his letters and confiscated 
them, forbidding her ever to correspond with him again. She 
had grown to care for him very gradually, but the emotion 
had sunk deeper than she had known, into a heart so starved 
of love. 

When tea was over, Lady Pendre said: 

“I want to have a talk with Martin. I’ll send for you both 
later.” 

Vicky felt defrauded. She didn’t want to lose a single 
moment of his company. They always had so much to say 
to each other, even when he didn’t want to talk about marry- 


262 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


ing her. And perhaps he wouldn’t be able to come again very 
soon. But she did not dare voice the doubt that was torment¬ 
ing her now, and she was everlastingly grateful to Eustace 
because he did so. 

“Martin mustn’t go away, though, without our seeing him 
again,” Eustace said. “Remember, I was the one to find 
him!” 

He smiled at his mother, giving her a look of perfect con¬ 
fidence that touched her. 

“I’m hoping perhaps that Martin will stay and dine with 
us,” Lady Pendre answered. 

On the broad sumptuous landing, with its velvet-soft car¬ 
pets and gleaming statuary and splendid palms, Vicky seized 
her brother’s arm. 

“Oh, Eustie, do you think she’s going to tell him about Mr. 
Soames ? I feel as if I couldn’t bear it—Martin’s inclined to 
be jealous of him—he told me so once!” 

“He knows all about it. I told him myself,” answered 
Eustace. 

“Oh, you shouldn’t have! He’ll believe just as Barbara 
does, that I want to marry Ernest!” 

“Don’t be afraid—he’s not going to believe any fool thing 
like that.” He put his arm lightly about her. “I’ve been hav¬ 
ing a long talk with him. And it’s up to you to marry him if 
you want to.” 

“Is it?” Her hand increased its pressure upon his arm. 
“He is splendid, isn’t he, Eustie? You do like him, don’t 
you ?” 

“Yes—he’s an awfully good sort. I believe you’d be happy 
with him. But there’s something you’ll have to know—it may 
make a difference—he’s become a Catholic, Vicky.” 

They had gone now into a little sitting-room down the long 
passage to the left. It was one their mother often used when 
she was in London, and it was full of her things. Books—- 
photographs of her children—bits of china and furniture that 
she had collected from time to time. 

“A Catholic?” Vicky was thoroughly sobered now. “But 
that’ll make Dad hate him more than ever.” 


REAPPEARANCE OF MARTIN SEDGWICK 263 

Oh, how hopeless it all was! She knew that very soon they 
would all go back to Pendre, and she would be forced, for 
peace’ sake, to marry Ernest Soames. She couldn’t go on 
fighting. And her father was less likely than ever now to 
give his consent to her marriage with Martin. This would 
put the crowning point upon his ineligibility. 

“But it won’t make you hate him, will it, Vicky ?” 

“Oh, I should love him just the same if he were a Moham¬ 
medan !” she answered lightly. 

Eustace took her hand and held it firmly. He wanted to 
give her courage and confidence to be true to this love which 
seemed to him such a splendid thing. She was such a child 
still, and yet when she spoke of Martin there was something 
mature and womanly about her. 

Vicky was crying now in a quiet restrained fashion; she 
was both happy and sorrowful. 

“Now he’s a Catholic he mayn’t want to marry me any 
more,” she said, after a brief reflection. 

“Perhaps he’d like you to be one too.” 

“I should never be good enough. They’re frightfully strict. 
I wonder why he did it.” 

Eustace told her as much of Martin’s conversion as he knew 
himself. 

“I feel as if he can’t care for me now,” she said, with a 
kind of bitter hopelessness. 

“But he does,” said Eustace. “Vicky—you’ve got to be 
strong and brave about this. Don’t throw away your own 
happiness. If you care for Martin—and make very sure you 
do—don’t let anything come between you.” 

“There are so many things that have come between us al¬ 
ready, through no fault of mine,” she said. Were not the 
Powers, as represented by her father, Barbara and Pamela, 
pitilessly ranged against herself and Martin? She was not 
even sure of her mother’s support, though her manner to him 
this afternoon had given her strong grounds for hope. But 
the thought that she and Martin were even now having a long 
and confidential talk filled her with a kind of dismayed 
anxiety. 


264 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

Still, Eustace’ words had a quieting and comforting effect 
upon her. And the apparently hopeless situation was at least 
illuminated by the golden certainty of Martin’s love. Eustace 
felt that it wasn’t likely his encounter with Vicky that day 
would do anything but consolidate and confirm it. She was 
looking especially pretty in her white summer dress; she had 
improved in looks, he thought, since the winter. She had the 
charm of something fresh and wild and essentially young—a 
poetical charm. She was as graceful, too, in her movements 
as a little light fairy. Eustace felt pretty sure that Sedgwick 
couldn’t be blind to this enchantment. 

“You must go forward without thinking of the difficulties 
and obstacles,” he told her, thinking perhaps of his own path 
—so clear and simple and yet so filled with difficulties. 

“I’ll try, Eustie. And I’m quite sure of one thing—I do 
care an awful lot for Martin. Now if they were only to in¬ 
sist upon my marrying him they’d soon find out how docile I 
can be! We could laugh at things together, just as we used 
to at Pendre when they were looking frightfully black, and it 
seemed to chase them away. Now if I ever had the bad luck 
to be Mrs. Soames, I should always have to be on my best 
behavior and pretend I was at least forty!” 

They both laughed. Still, the interview within those closed 
doors was a lengthy one, and could not be contemplated with¬ 
out some misgiving. 

“Of course he’ll tell Mummie he’s become a Catholic,” she 
whispered; “I’m afraid she won’t like that much. I wish he 
wasn’t so very frank and straightforward, but he’ll never 
leave her to find out that for herself. Now if he were to say 
straight out in the first instance that he wanted to marry me, 
he could make any revelations he liked afterward!” 

“You seem to take it for granted that they’re discussing 
you, my child,” observed Eustace, teasingly. 

“But of course they are! What else should they have to 
talk about in secret like that ? Oh, Eustie—I do wonder what 
she’s saying!” 

“You might trust her. You know she’s utterly opposed to 


REAPPEARANCE OF MARTIN SEDGWICK 265 


your marrying Soames. Between them, they ought to find a 
way out.” 


3 

In the drawing-room Lady Pendre was saying to Martin: 

“I didn’t know there was any hope of your getting leave 
this summer. Vicky told me you’d gone to Malta. It was 
your excuse, wasn’t it ?—for coming down to see her at 
Pendre in the spring.” 

“Yes. I was sorry afterward that I’d gone. But I felt I 
couldn’t go away like that for an indefinite time without see¬ 
ing her again. I shall be settled now in London for a bit— 
I’ve got a job at the War Office.” 

“Have you ? I’m very glad to hear it.” 

“Later I mean to try for the Staff College.” 

He had always liked Vicky’s mother, and had found it easy 
to talk to her. Sometimes, it is true, he had secretly blamed 
her for yielding her child up so completely to her husband’s 
tyrannical authority. Vicky was, in his opinion, utterly mis¬ 
managed, and he had even wondered how she had contrived 
to remain so lovable through it all. 

“There’s some talk—you may have heard it—of Vicky’s 
marrying Ernest Soames.” 

“Eustace told me. But of course it’s absurd unless she’s 
out to marry pots of money, which I know she isn t. Soames 
is a very decent chap, and his shooting’s top-hole, but he‘s old 
enough to be her father.” 

“He’s certainly a great deal older. But my husband wishes 
for the marriage.” 

“And do you wish for it?” he asked, bluntly. 

“No.” 

It was the first time he could ever remember hearing her 
express a definite and decided opinion. 

“Does Vicky?” he asked. There was a hint of anxiety in 
his tone, as if he feared that Eustace’ assertions to the con¬ 
trary, were not based upon sure knowledge. 

“No. So far she’s refused to entertain the idea. But she’s 


266 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


very young, Martin. She’s always had to obey her father. 
The old influence may prove too strong.” 

She looked at him now with something of appeal. He must 
help Vicky, if he really cared for her—he must! But did he 
care? Or was she still in his eyes only the pretty charming 
child ? 

He groped blindly. “Has this got anything to do with 
me ?” 

“I don’t know. You must tell me.” 

“I’ve asked Vicky to marry me. But twice I’ve been warned 
off—I didn’t know what to do. I felt it was only making 
trouble for Vicky if I tried to see her as I did last spring.” 

“Do you care for her ?” she asked. 

“Care for her? My dear Lady Pendre! Why, I’ve loved 
her for more than two years—I know it sounds absurd—she 
was such a child at the time. Why, when I first went away 
I used to think of that phrase about eating one’s heart out. 
Don’t think me sickeningly sentimental, but it came to that!” 

There was silence. Then he exclaimed impulsively: 

“I want to marry Vicky—as soon as possible. I’ve got this 
job—we can manage all right on what I have. You’ll help 
me, won’t you?” 

“Yes. I want to save her from this other marriage.” 

“I’d make her happier than Soames ever could, with all his 
money! That dried up chap—and Vicky !” 

“There’s something else,” she said. “If you find that Vicky 
cares for you it isn’t likely that my husband would do any¬ 
thing for her. He’s a very rich man, and generous when he 
likes people and when they do things to please him. If Vicky 
had married Ernest, he was ready to do for her just what he 
did for Barbara. But I think it would be *a very long time 
before he’d forgive Vicky for marrying you.” 

“I’ve got heaps for us both,” replied Martin, cheerfully. 
“We shan’t be rich, but we shan’t starve. Besides, I’d ever so 
much rather not be dependent on Lord Pendre after those two 
letters I’ve had from him.” 

“She’s such a child that I wish there had been no question 
of her marriage for another year or two. But I’m certain 


REAPPEARANCE OF MARTIN SEDGWICK 267 


that Mr. Soames could never make her happy, and I’m afraid 
when we get back to Pendre that she may yield to per¬ 
suasion. . . 

“There’s another thing I must tell you about myself,” said 
Martin. “I’ve told Eustace—he didn’t seem to see any 
objection.” 

“What’s that ?” she asked, a little anxiously. 

“Well, you see, I’ve become a Catholic. Would that make 
any difference to you?” 

He raised his blue eyes and looked at her with a penetrat¬ 
ing, inquiring gaze. And it seemed to him, as he looked at 
her, that his little confession had disturbed something of the 
icy calm of her face. She was paler than before—or was 
this only his fancy?—and her hands were strained tightly 
together as if she were making a strong effort at self-com¬ 
mand. 

“Would it?” he repeated, and his voice was a little harsh 
with anxiety. When she knew this, she would perhaps have 
no further wish that he should marry her daughter. 

She answered slowly: “It would make it all the more im¬ 
possible for my husband to forgive Vicky for marrying you.” 

“But you—” insistently—“what would you say?” 

Oh, she had always been an enigma to him—this beautiful 
woman who was Vicky’s mother. She had seemed such a 
cipher in her own house, and during his first days at Pendre 
he had even formed the erroneous opinion that she was in¬ 
different to her surviving children, especially to Vicky. She 
seemed to have so little voice in their upbringing. She was 
always, as it were, detached, aloof, eternally enigmatic. 

“I must know,” he said. 

She answered evasively: “It could make no possible 
difference to me!” 

“Then you’re not against it?” 

“Did you think I should be?” 

She was determined to parry his questions. He remem¬ 
bered then almost inconsequently that Philip Wingrave had 
once told him that he and his brother and sisters had been 
educated practically without religious instruction, and that 


268 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


their mother had never spoken to them on the subject at all. 
Was she, then, perfectly indifferent? Did she possess no faith 
of any kind herself? . . . 

“I thought you might be influenced by Lord Pendre’s at¬ 
titude toward the Catholic Church.” 

“Oh, then you know—?” 

‘Tve heard him speak of it once or twice, so I know what 
his opinion of it is. I suppose I’d already begun to think of 
it, for I remember it used to make my blood boil even then! 
One doesn’t really know the exact moment it takes hold of 
one. But I beg your pardon—I oughtn’t to have spoken like 
that to you.” 

He was remorseful, but she did not seem to be at all of¬ 
fended; in fact, he was not quite sure if she had heard him 
or not. 

“Perhaps Vicky won’t want to marry me when she knows. 
She’d have to make promises!” 

“I know—” she interrupted him now breathlessly. Her face 
wore a look of definite anguish, as if he all unconsciously were 
subjecting her to a subtle form of torture. 

“You see how it is, Lady Pendre, even if it meant losing 
Vicky which is unthinkable—I couldn’t go against the 
Church. But it does affect her, of course, tremendously.” 

“Of course it does. ...” 

Not even to win Vicky? There was something stronger in 
his life then than this young ardent love. Something that 
controlled him utterly, that claimed without question his first 
loyalty and his first love. Si scires donum Dei ... If thou 
didst know the gift of God. . . . 

“She might not care about making such sacrifices!” He 
held his head high, and there was a touch of arrogant defiance 
now in his bearing. 

Was he giving her blow upon blow? He felt that his words 
were slowly but surely demolishing that calm of hers, and 
that presently he would penetrate to the very heart of that 
woman who attracted him so strongly, and yet in a sense re¬ 
pelled him too. 


REAPPEARANCE OF MARTIN SEDGWICK 269 

He said to himself: “She knows something. What does 
she know ?” 

“You could ask her.” Her voice was cold. 

“Of course my hope and prayer would be that Vicky might 
become a Catholic too,” he said. 

My hope and prayer . . . She was conscious of an aching 
desire to echo those words—she wanted to tell him that all 
her own hopes and prayers for Vicky tended to that same 
end. Her prayers? Long ago she had, alas, forfeited all 
right to pray. 

Aloud she only said: “Of course that would be the hap¬ 
piest thing for both of you. Especially if there were any 
children. It always seems to me it must be hard upon a 
mother not to be able to bring up her children in her own 
Faith.” 

Their eyes met. But he did not dare to question her further. 
He felt the tension in every nerve. Sensitively he was aware 
that there were things she longed to say yet could not say. 
It was a relief to him when she rose and moved toward the 
door. 

“Do you still wish to see Vicky—to speak to her?” she 
asked. “If not, it would be kinder to go away. ...” 

“I want to see her—now I’ve got your permission. I must 
know if she’ll consent to an engagement . . . I’ll explain 
everything.” 

He was so tall that she had to lift her head a little to look 
into his face, now they were both standing up. Such a steady 
strong face with all its good looks, its sunny charm. She 
knew him to be full of grit and endurance. She felt that she 
could entrust Vicky to his keeping without fear. She put her 
hand in his. 

“God bless you, dear Martin.” 

She went out of the room, leaving him alone. 

4 

When Lady Pendre had gone, Martin Sedgwick realized 
that tacitly she would lend her support—whatever it was 
worth—to his marriage with her daughter. 


270 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


She had certainly been startled at the disclosure about his 
change of religion, but though she had said so little, he be¬ 
lieved that in her sight Catholicism would constitute no bar¬ 
rier to the said marriage. And indeed all the time he had 
felt somehow convinced that his words had awakened within 
her an emotion she had had some difficulty in repressing. 

Never had he been so aware of some mystery in her life— 
something that was quite definitely at the root of all that 
seemed so enigmatic and ambiguous in her character. Had 
it anything to do with religion ? Had it perhaps something to 
do with the Catholic Church ? He could not tell. There were 
baffling complexes and repressions, and he felt, too, that her 
answers had been deliberately intended to mystify him still 
further. 

He had not long to wait. The door opened and Vicky came 
into the room almost timidly. She knew nothing of what had 
passed between her mother and Martin. Lady Pendre had 
only said to her: “Go into the drawing-room. Martin wants 
to talk to you.” And then as if moved by some sudden, urgent 
impulse she had pulled the girl toward her and kissed her with 
an almost passionate affection. 

Martin was standing there near the window, his back turned 
to her. But the sound of the door opening, made him turn 
quickly and he went toward her. Now that the moment had 
actually come, Vicky felt a little afraid of him. That meet¬ 
ing in the Pendre woods had been to her a daring but very 
joyous adventure; she had gone to it with something of a 
child's eagerness and excitement. But Martin was changed 
to-day. He looked older, more stern, more determined. 

“Your mother and I have been talking about you,” he said 

“Yes?” 

“She’s been telling me there’s some question of your mar¬ 
riage.” 

“Yes,” she assented dully. 

“Do you want to marry Soames, Vicky?” he asked. 

He must absolutely clear up this all-important question be¬ 
fore he proceeded to state his own case. The lure of money 
was often very strong. Vicky had been brought up to believe 


REAPPEARANCE OF MARTIN SEDGWICK 271 

in the power and omnipotence of wealth. Lord Pendre was a 
materialist, who liked to impose his opinion upon others. And 
he made of wealth a god, a fetich. How far had his child 
escaped contamination? 

“I’ve utterly refused to marry him! I ... I almost hate 
him!” she cried. Her pale little face grew stormy; she 
clenched her hands. At that moment she looked very like the 
wild rebellious child whose personality had so intrigued him 
when he first arrived in a mutilated condition at Pendre. 

“Then will you marry me, Vicky?” he said, moving a step 
nearer to her. 

“They’ll never let us,” she said, in a hopeless tone. 

“Your mother will let us right enough. She’s on our side. 
She wasn’t even against it when I told her I’d become a 
Catholic.” 

“Don’t tell Dad you’re a Catholic!” she exclaimed, with a 
bitter flippancy. 

“What’s it got to do with him? Your mother told me quite 
plainly that if we were married we mustn’t look to him for 
any help. I’m afraid it may make an awful difference to you 
—you’ve been accustomed to so much.” 

He glanced significantly round at the beautiful luxurious 
room. 

She was silent. Oddly enough it was the question of his 
religion that disturbed her most. He would demand a high 
standard of her. She knew how grim and unflinching he 
could be in the endurance of physical agony. He had come 
back changed, and the change terrified her. She wanted the 
old Martin—faulty, human, but so dear. Not one pledged 
to a difficult spiritual service. . . . 

“And then my being a Catholic,” he went on. “You see 
how hopelessly ineligible I am from every point of view.” 

“Oh, that wouldn’t matter to me! I haven’t any religion to 
speak of, though Eustie and I have often wished we had.” 

Then to his consternation, she turned abruptly away and 
burst into tears. 

Instantly his arms were around her. “Oh, Vicky my 
darling—what’s the matter? What have I said?” 


272 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“Oh, it’s no good, Martin! I know you’re only trying to 
rescue me. You can’t really care. And I’m such a beast—I 
should so often be perfectly horrible to you! And then you 
know .... in the end I’ve always had to do what Dad 
wants!” 

He led her to the sofa, slipped his arm round her, and 
waited till she grew a little calmer. Of course she was over¬ 
wrought and excited; she had come pretty well to the end of 
her tether. 

“Darling, I’m not trying to rescue you,” he said at last. 
I’ve loved you all the time. Ask your mother and Eustace 
if I haven’t told them so. I was pretty hard hit when Lord 
Pendre’s first letter came, warning me off. And the last one 
—after our meeting in the spring—was worse. I wrote 
twice to you, once from London and once from Malta, but 
got no answer so I suspected you’d never received my letters. 
And then I was afraid, too, that the question of religion 
might make a difficulty even with yourself. . . .” 

“How could it make any difference? I’m so frightfully 
ignorant. Why, you might teach me, Martin!” She looked 
up now, smiling through her tears. The old Martin had 
most unexpectedly come back, and the stern, cold stranger 
who seemed to suspect her of a secret wish to marry Ernest 
Soames had vanished. “Mummie never taught us anything, 
you know. We used to notice, too, that she didn’t like us to 
talk about it to her.” 

Lady Pendre’s words came back to him with a peculiar and 
startling emphasis. “It always seems to me that it must be 
so hard upon a mother not to be able to bring up her children 
in her own faith. . . .” Her own faith ? What had that faith 
been? Philip and Vicky had both told him of her strange 
refusal ever to discuss the subject of religion with her 
children. 

Suddenly her words assumed in his mind a sinister impor¬ 
tance. Could it be that she had betrayed her faith? Was it 
possible? But he thrust the thought from him, not daring to 
pursue it to its logical conclusion even secretly. Yet had he 
not always felt about Lady Pendre that there was something 


REAPPEARANCE OF MARTIN SEDGWICK 273 


unexplained, lying hidden in the background of her life and 
thoughts? Something concealed and secret .... that made 
her shrink from all intimacy even with her own children? 
In their several ways they had all adored her with a kind 
of distant worshiping love, realizing her aloofness, her in¬ 
ability to descend into their lives and teach and influence them. 

To Martin she had always been a woman with a secret, and 
all that he gathered either from herself or her children, only 
crystallized and confirmed this opinion. 

“But perhaps you’d hate to marry someone who wasn’t a 
Catholic?” suggested Vicky, chilled by his silence. 

“What I’m hoping, you know,” he answered with a smile, 
“is that my wife may become one.” 

His calmness, something that was at once strong and steady 
and hopeful, quieted her. With all that she had endured dur¬ 
ing those past few months, first from his own absence and 
silence, and secondly from those endless discussions about her 
matrimonial future, her nerves were in a condition of acute 
tension. She had felt resistless hands pulling her toward a 
goal she both disliked and feared. Then just as she had begun 
to feel her own resistance weakening, Martin had come, as if 
sent by Heaven, to rescue her. The reaction was inevitable, 
and the feeling she had for him at the moment was less per¬ 
haps love than a passion of gratitude. He imbued her with 
fresh courage and confidence; he seemed to belong, too, to a 
plane where simple, ordinary things happened. She felt that 
she could trust him completely, just as she trusted Eustace. 
He would always stand like a rock between her and all 
tyranny and coercion. 

She put out her hand and touched his sleeve timidly. Em¬ 
boldened by this little gesture Martin drew her to him and 
kissed her. 

“Oh, Vicky darling, we’re going to be terribly happy!” 

“Are you sure, Martin? I feel as if Dad would never let 
me marry a Catholic.” 

“Well, we must do without his permission, then. We shall 
have your mother’s in any case.” 


274 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“And then Dad’s so made up his mind that I’m to marry 
Mr. Soames.” 

“Yes, but what I want to know is what’s old Soames doing? 
He can’t understand the position at all. Someone must have 
lied to him.” 

“You see, Dad doesn’t believe that I hate Ernest. He 
thinks I’m only making a fuss—that I mean to marry him in 
the end.” 

“Look here, Vicky, we’re living in the twentieth century 
and you’re not going to be forced to marry that blighter. 
Promise to marry me, and we’ll manage somehow. Your 
mother’s on our side—she as good as told me I could go 
ahead.” 

Vicky looked up at him with shy dark eyes. How easy it 
was to love him! And they had wanted to thrust her into 
a position when to love him would be a sin. 

“What did Mummie say when you told her about your 
religion ?” 

“She didn’t say very much—the difficulty was to get her 
to say anything at all. And yet, somehow, I felt that she 
wasn’t only not against it, but that she knew something about 
it. Did you ever hear that she’d had leanings at any time?” 

“Never. But even if she had she’d never have dared men¬ 
tion it to anyone. She never speaks of religion—I’ve some¬ 
times thought she didn’t believe in anything at all.” 

“I’m sure, from the way she spoke, that couldn’t be the case. 
At least it didn’t seem like that to me.” 

Fear and dread of what he might be going to say or ask 
.... all that had been in her lovely face this evening. But 
never indifference, never the easy scornful gesture of un¬ 
belief. 

“Is it very difficult to be a Catholic ?” Vicky asked. 

“It’s impossible unless you’ve got the faith. And when 
you have that it’s most awfully simple and easy.” He looked 
at her, and in his steady blue eyes there was an enthusiastic 
almost mystical light. “We can only obtain it by prayer or by 
some special grace, for only God can give it to us. His 
precious gift—the pearl above price.” 


REAPPEARANCE OF MARTIN SEDGWICK 275 

He spoke in sobered measured tones. Then after a pause 
he added: 

“I shall pray that you may have this grace, Vicky darling.” 

“Oh, I’m sure to do whatever you like,” she said simply; 
“I’m most awfully easy to manage when I really like people. 

Her naivete drew a smile from him, and he felt it incum¬ 
bent upon him to say: “Then you do really like me? 

“Very, very much. I always have, you know—even before 
I saw you. Phip told me how splendid you were. But I never 
thought you’d look at me.” 

“Then will you marry me?” 

“But of course . . . .” 

“Promise.” 

“Oh, I promise faithfully. Martin, you’ll be frightfully 
kind to me, won’t you ?” 

“Frightfully,” he assured her with a smile. 

“I do like you, Martin.” 

“But I shall want something more than that. You see, I 
love you, Vicky.” 

She put both her hands in his with a gesture that touched 
him more than he could express. “I love you, Martin. Ever, 
ever so much. Better than anyone in the world, except per¬ 
haps Mummie and Eustie.” 

“Well, that’s all right as far as it goes,” he said, laughing. 

He realized that he must go slowly with Vicky. Her love 
was not to be had for the mere asking. It was a deep thing 
of slow and gradual but steady growth. And it was some¬ 
thing to have won her confidence, and the same measure of 
love she gave to those dear ones, “Mummie and Eustie.” 

Lady Pendre came in presently and found them sitting 
there, apparently very happy and satisfied. Martin’s face 
wore a look of intense joy, Vicky’s was more subdued. They 
both rose and went toward her. 

“I want you to be the first to know that we’re engaged,” 
Martin said. He slipped his hand into Vicky’s and they stood 
there, side by side. 

Even now the girl did not smile; her face wore a thought¬ 
ful expression, but already it seemed to have gained something 


276 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


of tranquillity and sweetness. Her slight small form'looked 
almost fairy-like beside Martin’s tall figure. 

“I’m very glad—I know you’ll make her happy,” said Lady 
Pendre. 

He bent over and kissed her hand. 

“I feel I’ve got you to thank for this happiness,” he said. 

5 

Much later that night, after Martin had gone, Vicky was 
sitting with her mother in the little room where she and 
Eustace had waited that afternoon. 

The window was open, and outside they could see the sky 
above the trees and roofs, powdered with pale golden stars. 
The air that stole in was warm and soft. Only the faintest 
rumble of traffic reached their ears. 

“Mummie—I don’t feel as if it could be quite true. Shall 
I ever be allowed to marry him?” 

Lady Pendre looked wistfully at her daughter. 

“If you’re perfectly certain that you love him.” 

“I do like him. I think he’s perfectly splendid. And I’m 
not good enough for him.” 

“He told you that he’d become a Catholic?” 

“Yes. He’s going to pray for me that I may be one too. 
He says it’s quite easy and simple when you have the faith, 
but you must pray for it.” 

Lady Pendre winced as if she had been struck. Vicky 
secretly wondered what she could have said to hurt her. But 
perhaps the thought that her daughter was going to marry a 
man of another religion was repugnant to her. 

“Should you mind that very much?” the girl asked. “You 
know I haven’t any particular religion.” 

“I shouldn’t mind in the least.” 

Emboldened by this definite statement Vicky proceeded. 

“That’s what Martin told me. He said he thought that 
sometime or other you must have had—leanings!” 

“Leanings!” 

“But you don’t hate it, as Dad does?” 


REAPPEARANCE OF MARTIN SEDGWICK 277 

“I don’t hate it at all.” Her face had recovered its frozen 
calm. “But this is all beside the point, dear. If you really 
wish to marry Martin, I must tell your father.” 

“He’ll never give his consent.” 

“No, but at least it will make him realize that you couldn’t 
possibly think of any other marriage. That’ll be a point 
gained. Only, you must be perfectly certain that this mar¬ 
riage with Martin would be for your happiness. You must 
think it over—you’re so very young. . . .” 

“It’s too late to think it over. I’ve promised Martin to 
marry him. I’m engaged to him—it’s lovelier than I thought 
it would be.” Her face kindled. “And as for my being young 
—why, how old were you when you married Dad?” 

“I was eighteen—just your age. And I was nineteen when 
Phip was born. But, Vicky—” 

“Yes, Mummie?” 

“If you ever had any children they would have to be 
Catholics like their father. Your marriage to Martin must 
take place in a Catholic church. The Church is very particu¬ 
lar about these things. Promises have to be made, and you’ll 
be the one who’ll have to make them. There are complica¬ 
tions, you see, in a mixed marriage.” 

Vicky was silent, but she was listening attentively. His 
religion seemed to endow Martin with an almost mysterious 
quality that yet, somehow, deepened his essential attraction. 
And he had spoken of it with a very real and authentic en¬ 
thusiasm. The pearl of great price. . . . He wished her to 
have this grace—this gift. 

She said impulsively: 

“I’ll make any promise they want. I’m sure, though, I shall 
want to be a Catholic too. I shouldn’t like to think there was 
any division between us. Only, I’m so ignorant about it. 
Couldn’t you teach me a little, Mummie?” 

As she spoke she laid her hand upon her mother’s. 

Lady Pendre drew her hand away sharply as if she could 
not bear even that slight contact. She said in a cold stern 
voice: 

“I can’t teach you anything. We must leave all that to 


278 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Martin. No doubt he could introduce you to some priest, if 
you really seriously wish to be instructed. I daresay he would 
much rather that you should be received before your marriage, 
if there’s time. It would simplify things very much.” 

“Yes. I should like that best too,” said Vicky. 

“Being instructed doesn’t put you under any obligation to be 
received if you feel that you can’t go on. You can draw back 
—when you’ve learnt just what it all entails. But in any 
case you’d better know what you’re doing.” 

“Yes,” said Vicky, “I’d rather know.” Inwardly she was 
thinking: “She does know. Martin was quite right. Some¬ 
time or other she must have learned about it.” 

Could it be that Lady Pendre had once placed herself under 
instruction, and then had drawn back, feeling unable to take 
the further and irrevocable step ? What scruple perhaps of un¬ 
faith had held her back? But when and where had she ever 
come into contact with Catholicism? Not certainly since her 
marriage. . . .Yet she seemed to know what it implied in ac¬ 
curate detail . . . the obligations the Church imposed upon 
her children, safeguarding even the faith of those that were 
yet unborn. . . . Why did her mother exhibit a certain 
anxiety for this marriage to take place, despite the fact that 
Martin was a Catholic, and that the spiritual future of Vicky’s 
own children was involved? And although she had spoken 
so coldly, so academically, Vicky felt that the matter was not 
one of indifference to her. It was as if she wanted for her 
child this contact with Catholicism. Aloof and detached as 
she was, always unwilling to speak to her children with the 
normal intimacy of a mother, and never perhaps more so than 
on the present occasion, Vicky was able to sense something 
of her deep imprisoned speechless love more acutely than ever 
before. . . . 

The barrier of ice was still there, it is true, but it seemed 
to be acquiring a certain transparency across which they 
could see each other more clearly. 

Vicky felt the strength as well as the tenderness of her 
mother’s love—for had she not shown that love by coming to 
her help at a very critical juncture, breaking the tradition of 


REAPPEARANCE OF MARTIN SEDGWICK 279 


so many years during which she had yielded without apparent 
effort to her husband’s will ? 

She flung her arms impulsively round her mother’s neck, 
and cried: “Oh, I love you—I don’t want to leave you! I 
shall never be happy away from you. And when I’m of a 
different religion won’t that separate us still more ?” 

She pressed her warm thin young cheek against her 
mother’s. Lady Pendre clasped her for a moment and then 
gently released herself from the embrace. 

“I don’t think we shall feel separated on that account. 
Mothers and daughters are often drawn nearer to each other 
when the daughter marries and has children of her own. And 
I want you to be happy. I’m afraid you haven’t always been 
happy at home.” 

“But that was never your fault,” Vicky declared em¬ 
phatically. 

Lady Pendre rose. 

“You must be going to bed—you’ve had a long, exciting 
day.” 

She kissed her daughter’s forehead, and then slipped away 
into the next room. 

When she was alone Lady Pendre sank upon her knees. 
With no help from herself, with scarcely any effort on her 
part, Vicky’s eyes were turning for the first time toward the 
Catholic Church. Once she had believed that Eustace, in 
his restless eager quest for spiritual things, would be the first 
of her children to find that path. Now a door had been 
opened, suddenly, unexpectedly, in the life of her youngest 
child, who perhaps of them all needed most the discipline of 
faith. 

Martin had evidently spoken to Vicky quite frankly about 
his religion. He had told her that he was going to pray for 
her. His great love must surely assist her in that spiritual 
journey. 

And Lady Pendre, who more than her children had lived 
under the shadow that hung so heavily over the house, was 
able to feel at last that it had lifted a little, that a gleam of 


280 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Divine Mercy and perhaps even of pardon had pierced like a 
blinding ray across its darkness. 

She prayed now with scalding tears: “Oh, my God, let me 
suffer .... let me expiate .... only give the Faith to my 
children, the Faith I have robbed them of. Give back to them 
in Thy Mercy all that I have taken away, through my fault, 
through my fault, through my most grievous fault!” 

She uttered the words aloud in an extremity of anguish. 

“Grant that these my children may know Thee in Thy 
One True Church . . . 

As she knelt there, her eye fell upon a portrait of Philip 
in uniform. Like all the portraits of the dead it was a little 
faded, but it still showed him in the full beauty of his young 
manhood. He had died as he had lived, apart from the 
Church, ignorant of its consolations. For him the Way of 
Approach had been sedulously hidden. And whatever grace 
might be bestowed upon Eustace and Vicky, Lady Pendre 
knew that her eldest and most dearly loved child had through 
her own grievous fault died outside the Church. That at 
least was irremediable. 

She rose from her knees. “I could have taught her— 
everything! Oh, how I wish I could have instructed her. I 
could have shown her all the beauty and grace . . . 

Yes, and more than that. She could have knelt beside 
Vicky when she received her First Communion. In that 
solemn hour they might have been together. . . . 

She saw her act of rebellion in its true light—she who had 
so often shirked the contemplation of it, trying by every 
means in her power to silence the voice of conscience. But 
now she could look back across twenty-six years and trace 
the deadly consequences of her sin. She saw it as a spiritual 
betrayal, an outrage, an insult, deliberately offered to Al¬ 
mighty God with her own full knowledge and consent. It 
was an infidelity of the soul that was a thousand times more 
terrible and enduring in its effects than any infidelity of the 
body. It was a sin against grace—against the Holy Spirit. 
Was there—could there be—pardon for such a sin as that, 


REAPPEARANCE OF MARTIN SEDGWICK 281 

persisted in through long years, never either repented of nor 
absolved? . . . 

When Vicky knew, would she judge her with the remorse¬ 
less condemnation of youth? Perhaps when Vicky received 
the Faith she too would be arrayed against her. Could these 
children, so robbed, so denuded of their spiritual heritage, 
ever forgive her ? . . . 


CHAPTER XV 


An Awkward Situation 
1 

M ARTIN came daily to the house in Hill Street. Lady 
Pendre resolved to defer her own departure from Lon¬ 
don for as long as possible, so that the young people might see 
as much of each other as they could. It was for this reason, 
too, that she put off the evil moment of disclosure. Her 
husband’s absence rendered this feasible, and she was further 
assisted by the fact that, owing to the heat, Barbara had al¬ 
ready taken her little son to the seaside, and Pamela Webb 
had accompanied her. 

Things weren’t even now going to be easy, Martin reflected, 
though the present days were full of sweetness. They would 
have to cross stormy waters before he could call Vicky his 
own. Lord Pendre seemed to loom in the background—a 
stern, indomitable and hostile figure of destiny. 

It was unlikely, however, that he would join his family in 
London before their return to Pendre, which was fixed pro¬ 
visionally for the middle of August. London was emptying 
fast, and he had once or twice written to ask the cause of the 
delay. From his letters Lady Pendre gathered that he had 
been seeing a good deal of Soames, who was now settled once 
more at Moth Hill Park. 

It was the first time in all her married life that she had even 
acted in direct opposition to her husband’s wishes, and the 
knowledge made her feel a little guilty. All these years she 
had been contented to remain a mere cipher where her children 
were concerned. Because she could not teach them the one 
thing which she ought to have taught them, she had refused 
to teach them anything at all. 

282 


AN AWKWARD SITUATION 


283 


But now she was deliberately encouraging her daughter 
in a marriage that Lord Pendre would detest for every con¬ 
ceivable reason. It made her afraid to see him again. When 
she saw him, she knew that she would not be able to with¬ 
hold the truth from him. And he had a right to know it. 
Besides, their long association precluded such a withholding. 

She did not know how he would receive such a confession 
from her lips. Harsh and violent as he had often shown him¬ 
self to his younger children, he had been consistently kind to 
herself. Whatever his faults, he had loved her devotedly. He 
had been a faithful and adoring husband, and his love had 
meant a great deal to her. The thing for which she had 
bartered all had not proved, as is so often the case, worthless 
or delusive. It had its own solid and permanent value; it had 
helped her more than anything to drug her conscience, to 
forget .... 

Now perhaps things would never be the same between them 
again. Perhaps he would even suspect her of a longing to 
look back—to return to the practices of her religion. And 
how could she ever return ? . . . 

They would be alone together in that great opulent house, 
with Vicky married and Eustace away. Sitting in that 
brooding shadow, estranged perhaps and alienated. And for 
the first time she thought of her own future with something 
of terror. For it might be, too, that if, as now seemed prob¬ 
able, Vicky and Eustace became Catholics, the knowledge of 
her apostasy might alienate and estrange them also. 

Of Eustace, in the days that followed, they saw very little. 
He seemed to be immersed in some secret and absorbing busi¬ 
ness of his own which occupied all his thoughts and kept him 
a great deal from the house. Lady Pendre had never ques¬ 
tioned him, and she did not do so now. She would have been 
glad to receive his confidence, although she never invited it. 

Eustace himself was a little baffled at her evident desire for 
the marriage between Martin and Vicky to take place, even 
now that she was aware of the change in Sedgwick’s religion, 
and realizing, as she must, how distasteful the idea would be 
to her husband. 


284 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“She wants Vicky to marry Martin not in spite of his 
being a Catholic, but because he is one/’ he told himself, when 
reflecting upon the happenings of that memorable Sunday. 

He was delighted to think the engagement was an accom¬ 
plished fact, and surely when it came to Soames’ ears it 
would destroy any foolish hope he might still cherish. But 
his mother’s attitude had surprised him. She had brought up 
her children quite deliberately without religious teaching, and 
now she was actually encouraging her daughter to marry a 
man who had recently chosen to belong to a Church that 
stood for dogma, lucidly and logically promulgated, and that 
was changeless and immutable as no other .religious body 
had dared to remain. People had been crying out for a new 
religion since the War, but the Catholic Church had gone on 
steadily, unchangingly, gathering to herself thousands of new 
disciples all over the world. And it wasn’t as if Lady Pendre 
had been ignorant of the claims of that Church. On the 
contrary, she was somehow quite accurately informed as to 
their nature. Eustace found himself as ever groping in ob¬ 
scurity, seeking for clues to the mystery that as ever baffled 
him. 

They were a very happy little group of people, harmonious, 
united. Vicky seemed to have acquired a new sweetness. 
Martin was proudly possessive, and he seemed to have taken 
Lady Pendre and Eustace to his heart as well. He was rather 
a lonely person, as he had lost both his parents, while his only 
brother had been killed in the War. He had a married sister 
who was now in India with her husband and another living in 
the North; they seldom saw each other. Vicky’s family, with 
the exception of Lord Pendre, seemed to Martin perfectly 
delightful. He wished that everything had been smooth, that 
there hadn’t been those rocks and breakers ahead. 

2 

The storm burst sooner than anyone had imagined, for even 
Lady Pendre had complacently supposed it would await her 
return to the country. But one morning while she was break- 


AN AWKWARD SITUATION 


285 


fasting in bed—a luxury she could never enjoy at Pendre—a 
telegram arrived from her husband. Shall come to-day for 
week-end with Soames. 

This laconic and sinister message fell like a bombshell, dis¬ 
integrating everything. Her first thought was naturally for 
Vicky, who would be the principal sufferer. That Soames 
should come at the present moment was an outrage, but Lord 
Pendre, possibly forseeing that his arrival would not meet 
with her approval, had purposely given her no opportunity 
of canceling the arrangement. In a few hours they would be 
here. . . . 

Probably it meant that the two men had come to an under¬ 
standing, and that a renewal of pressure was to be brought to 
bear upon Vicky. 

Lady Pendre was little accustomed to take action upon her 
initiative. But she had embarked upon a policy of deception, 
and already it was leading her into the proverbially thorny 
and tangled ways. She felt now that her daughter must be 
got out of the house with as little delay as possible. The ques¬ 
tion was one of destination. Useless to send her down to 
Cornwall to enjoy the salubrious Atlantic breezes with Bar¬ 
bara and Pamela. Mrs. Hammond was entirely in favor of 
the proposed marriage with Soames, and Pamela would not be 
best pleased to see Vicky appear upon the scene. Barbara had 
not cared for Soames herself, but in her opinion he was the 
‘Very man” for her sister. Not too soft, but capable of pro¬ 
viding the firm hand of which poor Vicky was supposed to 
be in need. Aware of her elder daughter’s attitude, Lady 
Pendre ruled her house out of court. 

But something must be done at once. . . . Soames would 
surely not have accepted such an invitation unless he had 
been fairly convinced that his arrival would not be unwelcome 
to Vicky. He was perhaps coming with the idea that the 
engagement would be shortly announced. Lady Pendre felt 
no little indignation that her husband should not only be able 
to deceive himself so completely in the matter but that he 
should also have persuaded Soames to accept his point of 


view. 


286 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


She dressed hurriedly and then sent a message to Vicky. 
Probably she was already getting ready to go out with 
Martin; he always fetched her in the morning. 

“Why, Mummie, what on earth’s the matter? Anything 
wrong?” Vicky came eagerly into the room. She embraced 
her mother. Then her eye fell upon the telegram lying on the 
table. 

“Your father’s coming up to-day with Ernest Soames.” 

“Oh, help!” said Vicky, flippantly. 

But beneath her flippant manner she felt a new and 
terrible fear. Fear of being parted from Martin—of losing 
what she had only just won. 

He was more dear to her now. The very fact of their 
engagement had taught her that. She gazed at her mother, 
wide-eyed. What would Lady Pendre do at this critical 
moment? Would she still openly espouse her cause, or would 
she stand by, mutely watching her defeat ? . . . 

“What are you going to do, Mummie ?” she cried, dismayed. 

“I’m going to send you away. The question is where to? 
Of course I see now I ought to have told your father at once 
about—your engagement. It was very wrong of me to hide 
such an important thing from him. But I did want you to 
have a little time of happiness together—you and Martin.” 

“Eustie might take me somewhere. I should love that!” 

“I’m not sure that I could spare him, except for your 
journey.” 

“Then let me go and stay with dear old Briggy. You know 
she’s often wanted me to, and Hove is so nice and near. 
Martin could come down and see me.” 

Since her retirement Miss Brigstocke had been living in a 
little house at Hove on a pension graciously accorded by 
Lord Pendre. 

As there was little time to be lost, a telegram was sent with 
the reply prepaid. By luncheon-time all was settled; Miss 
Brigstocke was overjoyed, and to perfect the arrangement 
Martin was to escort Vicky thither. Eustace remained in 
London with his mother, to “face the music,” as he ex¬ 
pressed it. 


287 


AN AWKWARD SITUATION 

“If we don’t look out/’ he prophesied, “Vicky’ll have a 
regular nervous break-down. She seems on the brink of it.” 

“Oh, I’m sure Miss Brigstocke will take every care of her. 
And the change’ll do her good. I suppose Martin will stay in 
Brighton till Sunday evening?” 

“That’s the idea. Vicky’s afraid of something happening 
to separate them. I think I shall give that blighter Soames a 
hint. I’m sure he doesn’t realize that she’s dead against it. 
Dad’s probably persuaded him, by this time, that she s quite 
keen on him. I mean to show him he’s wrong.” 

His mother’s prompt and decisive action had surprised him 
fully as much as it had done Vicky. Never in his life could 
he remember that she had interfered between her husband and 
their children. While he was as grateful to her as Vicky was, 
he yet dreaded the consequences, and shrank from the thought 
of the inevitable meeting that could not now long he 
postponed. 

Besides, his father was quite capable of going to Hove by 
an early train on the morrow to fetch Vicky back. He 
would never listen to the idea of her marrying Martin. 
Eustace felt troubled and miserable, believing that he would 
find it more than ever difficult to break free in the future. 
His mother would be so lonely without any of her children. 

3 

They were sitting waiting in the drawing-room that eve¬ 
ning, when they heard through the open window the sudden 
sound of a motor-car slowing up and stopping in the street 
below. Eustace went to the window and, drawing aside the 
blind, looked out. It was not yet dark, but the evening gold 
was deepening to a purple-brown that enfolded everything 
in a warm and colorful twilight. 

“They’re both there,” he said shortly. 

He glanced at his mother, but she made no comment. Her 
face, pale as the white dress she was wearing, evinced no 
emotion. 

Then Lord Pendre came into the room, immense, massive, 


288 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


formidable. There was a subtle courtesy in his manner that 
foreboded danger. It might be he had already guessed that 
even if he himself were welcome, his companion certainly 
would not be. 

He was followed by Soames, in whose dried and reddened 
face Eustace thought to discern a bleak triumph. 

When Lady Pendre met her husband’s eyes—those black 
fierce eyes so destitute of lights and shadows—her heart sank. 
Her smile was a little forced as she greeted the two men. 
She was thankful then—yes, and grateful—for Eustace’ 
support. 

Her sense of guilt deepened; she felt uneasy, and it seemed 
to her that her husband was already aware of it, and was 
beginning to search for its cause. 

Her action had created a wholly new and unaccustomed 
situation between them. How would he meet it? Would his 
anger for the first time get the better of his love? And 
would that anger be for the first time directed against herself ? 
Would he simply trample on her wishes—fetch Vicky home— 
insist upon the marriage? No—that at least was impossible— 
he had Martin to reckon with now. 

Soames was almost immediately taken up to his room, and 
then Lord Pendre turned sharply to his wife. 

“Where’s Vicky?” 

“She’s .... out.” 

“Why isn’t she here? Didn’t you tell her I was bringing 
Ernest ?” 

He saw that his wife was nervous and trembling; the 
knowledge irritated him. He had had a most cheery, pleasant 
journey with Soames, and had arrived fully prepared to spend 
an agreeable evening with his wife and family. Vicky was to 
be freely forgiven and taken back into favor. 

But Vicky was not present; his wife was obviously nervous 
and sedulously avoided meeting his inquiring gaze; Eustace 
sat there, frowning, sullen and silent,—a death’s head at the 
feast. The atmosphere was charged with hostility. He could 
only conclude that it was because he had brought Soames 
with him. 


AN AWKWARD SITUATION 289 

“Out? This evening?” he continued angrily. “Who’s 
she out with?” 

Lady Pendre offered no explanation. 

“Is she with Barbara? But, no—Barbara’s in Cornwall—” 

“She’s not with Barbara. . . 

“Will she be back to dinner ?” 

“No 

Eustace looked up and said: 

“Vicky’s not in London. She preferred not to be here as 
you were bringing Soames with you. One can hardly blame 
her.” 

His voice was cool, with a flick of contempt in it. It roused 
his father’s fury. 

“Well, I’m not going to have anything of that sort! You’ll 
have to tell me where she is, and I’ll fetch her myself in the 
morning. I am not going to be made a fool of, nor is 
Soames!” 

“Hugo—don’t.” Lady Pendre rose and went up to her 
husband. “We must make the best of it without her. One 
of us must explain to Mr. Soames. . . . There was no time 
to ask you not to bring him, and while he’s here don’t let’s 
quarrel.” 

“If you think I’m going to let Vicky flout me—” 

“No, but she utterly refuses to marry Ernest. You can’t 
force her into it. You’d better leave her alone.” 

Her little speech was interrupted by Soames’ reappearance. 
In a moment Lord Pendre was controlled and polite, the 
courteous host. They went down to dinner. 

Soames was obviously ill-at-ease. He began to realize that 
Vicky’s absence was intentional; it had been adroitly con¬ 
trived to synchronize with his own arrival. Lady Pendre had 
most undoubtedly cfied, Check! He had an uneasy feeling 
that her move might even prove to be checkmate, just at the 
moment when he had believed victory was his. 

Always, he had summed her up as a beautiful automaton, 
with little mind or will of her own, to whom Lord Pendre was 
devoted and considerate and even tender. Men with an over¬ 
powering and tremendous personality often chose that type of 


290 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

wife, not exactly meek, but indolent and accommodating and 
thankful to surrender the management of house and home into 
cleverer and more competent hands. A calm, attentive, im¬ 
partial spectator. . . . And lo, without warning she had cried 
Check! 

Never having anticipated opposition from that quarter, he 
felt as uncomfortably astonished as if a beautiful statue had 
suddenly come to life and evinced a spontaneous hostility 
toward himself, barring his ingress to some desired haven. 
He had never attached any significance to Lady Pendre, nor 
feared anything from her; it was therefore dismaying to per¬ 
ceive suddenly that she was a force with whom it was neces¬ 
sary to reckon. 

He began to feel that he had been deceived about Vicky’s 
supposititious preference for himself, and sincerely wished 
that he had never left the security of Moth Hill. Pendre 
should have made more sure of his ground, before inducing 
him to accompany him. 

No one seemed inclined to speak, and finally Soames, with 
a laudable recognition of his own duty as guest, endeavored to 
produce some conversation, at all costs. 

“I suppose you’ve heard Miss Tresham has given up Glen 
Cottage?” he remarked. “She found she couldn’t afford it. 
I shall do it up and modernize it before I look for another 
tenant.” 

He glanced at Eustace as he spoke. He had heard a strange 
rumor that he had been seen leaving Glen Cottage on the very 
evening of Mrs. Tresham’s death. His bailiff had told him, 
assuring him that he couldn’t have been mistaken—he’d seen 
young Mr. Wingrave as plain as daylight! 

That Eustace should have visited her then, seemed to sug¬ 
gest an intimacy of some standing, and one of which his 
father was surely unaware. 

But Eustace met his glance coolly. 

“Where’s she gone?” he asked. 

“She’s staying with Mrs. Dyrham for the present, but that’s 
only a temporary arrangement, I believe.” 

Eustace thought: “Then I shall see her.” Even his mother 


AN AWKWARD SITUATION 


291 


drove over occasionally to visit Mrs. Dyrham—no one could 
possibly object to his going there. At that moment he longed 
to be back at Pendre. London seemed unbearably close and 
stuffy- He wanted those deep shady woods with their flowers 
and tangled undergrowth, the wide meadows dipping down 
to that divine blue vision of the Irish Sea. . . . 

He tried to picture the remote little cottage lying empty. 
He could see it so plainly in the blue and gold of a May 
evening, with the trees behind it breaking into emerald flame, 
and the deep sound of the sea rising and falling in the 
distance. 

“I shouldn’t mind living at the cottage myself,” he told 
Soames now with a smile. 

"A nice place to loaf in,” remarked Lord Pendre, bitterly. 
He was thinking: “How long does the fellow mean to remain 
idle? He’s been back over five months, and he’s as fit as a 
fiddle. There’s nothing the matter with him but sheer lazi¬ 
ness. He’s at the back of Vicky’s rushing off like this, I’ll be 
bound.” 

After dinner Soames made an excuse to go out. He would 
look in at a music-hall, he said, and, besides, he wanted to go 
to his club. To tell the truth he found the atmosphere threat¬ 
ening, and there seemed to be no chance of seeing Vicky. If 
it hadn’t been for his mother, Eustace would have suggested 
accompanying him. He wanted an opportunity of speaking 
to him in private, and explaining Vicky’s absence. 

4 

Lady Pendre had gone up to the drawing-room, and after 
Soames’ departure the father and son retired to the smoking- 
room. 

Eustace picked up some evening papers and glanced per¬ 
functorily at their contents. There would be a scene of 
course. He could see that his father suspected him of having 
been an accessory to the little plot for hurrying Vicky out of 
sight so as to avoid any possible meeting with Soames. 

Lord Pendre’s face was very black; his eyebrows met in a 


292 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


broad dark line across his face, his eyes were fierce and 
somber. He had suddenly found himself confronted by a 
most unexpected situation, and he foresaw some difficulty in 
offering Soames a satisfactory explanation of it. 

Soames had a temper of his own; he had no small sense of 
his own importance, and this action of Vicky’s, obviously sup¬ 
ported by her mother and brother, might have the effect of 
putting him off altogether. 

Eustace put down the newspaper and took a cigarette-case 
from his pocket. But his father impatiently thrust a silver 
box in front of him, saying: “Here—have a decent cigarette! 
Don’t smoke those filthy gold-flakes here.” 

Eustace replaced his own case and, taking a cigarette from 
the proffered box, lit it. He knew that his father’s eyes were 
upon him, and that probably he would have to endure the chief 
brunt of his anger. 

Lord Pendre watched him. Eustace’ very composure irri¬ 
tated him. And as he looked at him he thought how little he 
knew of this young man who one day would perhaps inherit 
Pendre—if he behaved himself! And not only Pendre, but 
an elder son’s portion of all that goodly wealth he himself 
had been storing up for so many long years by dint of un¬ 
ceasing industry and effort. What were the secret thoughts 
of his heart—his ambitions—his hopes ? What did he demand 
of life—this man who possessed so much of his mother’s re¬ 
serve and reticence, and so little of her charm and 
docility? . . . 

There was something in Eustace’ cold critical look that 
always aroused his secret indignation. He had a dreadful 
suspicion at times that his son instead of envying him his 
great possessions pitied him on account of the things he had 
missed. 

Well, he had done his best to mould him into a decent shape 
so that he might carry on the great work he himself had in¬ 
augurated, becoming perhaps in time a millionaire if he proved 
prudent and industrious. But Eustace was not malleable; he 
thought his own thoughts, went his own way. 

Lord Pendre broke the silence at last with an angry; 


293 


AN AWKWARD SITUATION 

“Do you know where Vicky is ?” 

“Yes, Dad.” 

“Where is she?” 

Eustace flicked the ash from his cigarette, and then 
answered slowly: 

“She’s staying with Miss Brigstocke at Hove.” 

“Did you take her down there?” 

“No.” 

“Who went with her, then?” 

“Look here, Dad,” said Eustace, “I’m sorry I can’t tell you 
any more. You must ask mother. But Vicky isn’t coming 
back as long as Soames is here.” 

“We’ll see about that,” said Lord Pendre, grimly. “I shall 
go and fetch her myself.” 

“You’d better not, Dad. Vicky’s simply at breaking-point. 
You’ll have her ill next.” 

“You mean she’s hiding from Soames?” 

“If you choose to call it that.” 

Lord Pendre seized a heavy book that was lying on the 
table and flung it with unerring aim at his son’s head. Some 
form of physical violence was the natural expression of his 
rising wrath. Eustace made a sharp movement so the missile 
only grazed his cheek. He picked it up, replaced it on the 
table, and sat down again. His face was very pale except for 
the long narrow red smear where the book had struck him. 

“She shall come back to-morrow if I have to go and fetch 
her myself! I won’t have this rebellion. And you’ve been 
aiding and abetting her. What do you suppose Soames is 
thinking of us all?” 

“It’s time he learned the truth,” answered Eustace, coolly. 

Lord Pendre left the room abruptly. He was resolved to 
learn further particulars of this gross, unparalleled act of 
rebellion from his wife. Vicky was only laying up trouble for 
herself. . . . 

Eustace waited for a moment and then followed him up¬ 
stairs. He was afraid of him in this mood of undisciplined 
fury. Not that he had ever seen him offer violence to his 


294 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


wife, but then she had never before set herself in deliberate 
opposition to him. 

The drawing-room door was shut when he reached it, and 
from the landing outside Eustace could hear his father’s voice 
raised in shrill and angry monologue. Then came a little 
crash as of something falling, the splintering of glass and 
china, followed by a thud. In the sudden dead pause that 
ensued Eustace entered the room. 

His mother was sitting on the sofa, outwardly calm but 
very pale. Her dark eyes were fixed upon her husband’s face 
with a kind of weary almost desperate appeal. Lord Pendre 
was standing not far from her, and between them, on the 
carpet, lay a small broken table and a quantity of smashed 
china. In his wrath he had apparently hurled it over. The 
same frenzy that had prompted him to fling that great book 
at his son’s head. . . . 

He did not observe Eustace’ entrance, but continued his 
furious monologue. 

“You’re to tell me at once! Do you hear, Giselda? What’s 
all this mystery about? I know she’s gone to Miss Brig- 
stocke’s, but who took her there? I won’t have you making 
a fool of Soames like this! I’ll fetch her myself in the morn¬ 
ing, and we shall soon see who’s master. She shall have a 
lesson she’ll never forget. As if I didn’t know what was best 
for her!’’ 

“It’s useless, Hugo. Vicky utterly refuses to marry Mr. 
Soames—she’s more decided about that than she ever was. 
It was a mistake your bringing him here, and I rather wonder 
that he came. He must have known by this time his presence 
wasn’t welcome to her.” 

“He came because I assured him that the engagement could 
be given out at once. Vicky’s had lots of time to think it over 
and make up her mind. I’ve stretched a point in letting you 
stay on in London—you ought to have been back as usual for 
the Flower Show. People have been asking questions— 
wondering why it was hanging fire. I meant to give Vicky 
a good talking-to directly I arrived, and I felt sure that now 
she’s had all these months in which to consider the matter 


AN AWKWARD SITUATION 


295 


she would prove perfectly reasonable. And now you’ve aided 
and abetted her in this useless rebellion—you and Eustace 
between you!” His dark eyes held an ugly light. “You’ve 
let her go away—insulting Soames—” 

“Yes, I had to help her. We were afraid of what you 
might do. I’ve never gone against you before, Hugo, but 
you’ve driven me to it. I couldn’t stand by and see my own 
child sacrificed to your insensate ambition and love of 
money!” There was a little passion in her voice, and her 
eyes shone with anger. “Vicky wanted my help. You can’t 
force her into a loveless marriage—especially when she loves 
another man!” 

She made a gesture as if to entreat Eustace, who was still 
standing there, to make himself visible to his father, whose 
back was turned to him. But he did not move. 

“Another man?” he snapped. “What other man? She 
doesn’t know any other men. I’ve taken good care that she 
shouldn’t.” 

“If you think a little, Hugo, you’ll know who it is!” 

He turned upon her with renewed fury. 

“You don’t mean Sedgwick—that young ass, without a 
penny? I forbade him ever to write to her or come near her 
again. I should have thought after my last letter he wouldn’t 
have dared show his sneaking face near my house!” 

“Vicky is engaged to him, Hugo. They are to be married 
quite soon.” 

“They are not! He’s after her money, and he’ll never have 
a farthing of it. I can promise him that. Let’s hear if 
they’re still engaged when he knows that!” 

“He’s ready to marry her without a farthing from you. 
He cares for Vicky, not for her money. They’ve been de¬ 
voted to each other ever since he stayed with us at Pendre. 
Hugo—do look at it reasonably. Vicky has the right, within 
certain limits of common prudence, to choose for herself. 
And we haven’t any right to dictate to her—we can’t force 
her to marry Soames. It would be a crime. ...” 

Eustace stood and listened as if he had been an unwilling 
actor in some dreadful little drama. He felt passionately 


296 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


sorry for his mother, yet he could not but admire her cool 
courage, her inflexible determination. She was paying now, 
however, for all those years when she had seemed to stand 
aside and never occupy herself with the concerns of her chil¬ 
dren, their moral or spiritual welfare. And it seemed to 
Eustace, as he listened, that she had just awakened to a sense 
of her own acute responsibility toward this young soul com¬ 
mitted to her care. Indolent, and perhaps even a little timid 
by nature, she was now being forced into action, driven as it 
were by some fierce and mysterious power. . . . 

“I shall go and fetch her home to-morrow! I refuse to 
allow this farce to go on any longer. You seem to forget 
that Vicky isn’t of age. I shall soon teach her her duty! 
Sedgwick indeed! He’s found a nice way of rewarding me 
for my hospitality to him when he was ill. I only wish I’d 
caught him making love to her—as I’ve no doubt he did— 
at Pendre!” 

“Don’t go to her, Hugo. Leave her alone—” 

He made a menacing step toward his wife, and Eustace 
slipped forward and stood between them. His action had been 
so swift that it took his father completely by surprise. 

For a moment the two men faced each other. Eustace was 
a much smaller and slighter man than his father; he looked a 
mere slip of a boy beside him. 

“How long have you been there, eavesdropping? What 
have you heard?” 

“Everything you’ve said since you knocked over the table.” 

Lord Pendre pushed his son aside with a violent gesture. 
His blood was up, and a torrent of abuse and invective poured 
from his lips. Elemental, primitive, despite the veneer which 
wealth and position had bestowed upon him, he had reverted 
to the language of the class from which his father had sprung. 
Only the great coarse strength gave him a kind of dignity. 

Eustace had never in his life seen him so angry. But his 
anger had shifted now from his wife to his son. There was 
less danger in that. 

“Eustace, do go away, dear,” said Lady Pendre. 

It seemed to her that she ought to suffer alone, that she had 


AN AWKWARD SITUATION 


29 7 


no right to drag her son into the appalling little scene. She 
rose and stood there very fearlessly, looking tall and slender 
and young in her white dress. 

“I had to go against you for Vicky’s sake, Hugo,” she 
said. “It wasn’t easy. But you’ve made me glad she wasn’t 
here to-night—you’ve shown me I was right to send her 
away. And I’m not going to let my daughter be forced into 
a marriage—I couldn’t let her taste that misery!” The em¬ 
phasis she laid upon this word was slight but significant. 
“Especially when she is in love with another man.” 

Her speech, cold and stern, with a hint of rebuke in it, 
seemed strangely enough to calm him. Or had there been 
something in the actual words to bring him, albeit tardily, to 
his senses? Had she touched some memory to which he re¬ 
acted involuntarily? Did he understand all that lay behind 
those emphatic words: “I couldn’t let her taste that 
misery . . . ?” 

Eustace had never before questioned her love for his 
father, but at that moment a dreadful little doubt came into 
his mind, fortified by Vicky’s careless words, that recurred 
to him then. 

“Vicky hasn’t any religion to help her. She might not 
endure it,” Lady Pendre added fearlessly. 

Eustace slipped out of the room as noiselessly as he had 
entered it. He judged that there was no longer any need 
for him to remain. His father’s rage had spent itself, and he 
felt that his mother was being driven by the exigencies of 
the situation to say things that it was more seemly he should 
not hear. After her long, long silence she was lifting the 
curtain a little. Her words had pierced him like a sword. 
Had she been so very unhappy in her married life? Had 
she suffered, this cold, enigmatic woman, when they had 
thought her merely indifferent? She had seemed so utterly 
without spiritual support in that wealthy, luxurious material¬ 
istic life of hers. But he felt that in her determination to 
save Vicky from this loveless marriage, she had had some 
experience of what it could entail of bitterness and suffer¬ 
ing. . . . 


298 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


But surely she had known compensation. It couldn’t have 
been all suffering. She had had Philip—her love had been 
most truly his. What had life been like for her since that 
day when they had brought her the news of his gallant death, 
and she had uttered that terrible, sinister little speech: “It 
was I who killed him . . . ?” 

These thoughts crowded tumultuously through his mind. 
He could hardly even now believe in the objective reality of 
what he had seen and heard. It was all part of some dreadful 
dream. . . . 

Was Vicky right in her assumption that their mother had 
been forced into a loveless marriage for worldly motives? 
It was quite possible, he thought, that his father’s iron will 
had dominated the weak and dissipated character of Major 
Kelsey. He might even have brought peculiar pressure to 
bear upon that miserable bankrupt. Yes, he was capable even 
of that, to gain a desired end. Eustace realized that his father 
could be almost unscrupulous, although never actually dis¬ 
honorable, in the attainment of something upon which he had 
set his heart. A man so bent on success as he was, must 
surely blind himself to certain very delicate claims of honor. 
That he could so blind himself, was visible in his outrageous 
attempt to force this ambitious marriage upon his inex¬ 
perienced little daughter. It might well be, therefore, that in 
the matter of his own marriage, when love and, it might be, 
also ambition were furiously concentrated upon one particular 
woman, he had made use of those qualities in his character 
which were inexorable, primitive, and undesirable. 

Eustace tried to dispel these disloyal thoughts. It might 
be that Vicky’s words had misled him. But to-night he had 
glimpsed that fierce, primitive elemental man, and he felt 
that he was looking at him from a fresh viewpoint. 

And then it was quite possible that this very hypothesis 
might prove to be the true source of the shadow which of late 
had assumed such preposterous and malignant proportions in 
their home life. 

He seemed to see his mother, eternally standing there with 
her white dress flowing about her, speaking in that quiet 


AN AIV1 IRD SITUATION 


299 


deadly voice, so passion a’, for all its calm. And his father, 
staring, staring, as if me deep and fathomless abyss had 
opened suddenly at his , dividing him from his wife. 

That had been the won part of it all. To see him change, 
as it were, in a moment, nd become silent, almost cowed, as 
if strength had gone out t him. . . . 

Eustace waited on tl inding above, listening for some 
sound from below. Bt there was none. And presently, 
after many minutes of coiplete silence, he heard his father 
emerge from the drawn -room and close the door softly 
behind him, almost as i had left death in the room. Then 
the echo of his heavy going with measured tread down 
the stairs. 

And then silence that, Dgether with the shadow, filled the 
house from attic to cella . . 


4 

Ernest Soames returns to the house in Hill Street a little 
before midnight. A s :y-looking footman admitted him, 
and he was walking towrd the stairs when Eustace inter¬ 
cepted him, appearing :m a door to the right of the en¬ 
trance. This room was !dom used by anyone but himself, 
it was furnished as a stu with a great roll-top writing table 
and a large bookcase full f books. 

Eustace was never tir: of poring over those volumes when 
he was in London, for may of them had been bought in lots 
at auctions irrespective ( heir contents. And sometimes his 
searchings were reward y the discovery of a rare book or 
first edition, or perhar precious, little-known pamphlet. 
He always called his re rches in the dull little room “dig¬ 
ging for treasure.” 

But to-night, while he i sat there waiting for Soames, he 
had not opened a single ume. His thoughts had been fixed 
profoundly, tormentingl; pon the recent scene in the draw¬ 
ing-room. 

“I’d like to speak to ?u for a moment, please,” Eustace 
said. 


300 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Soarties was a trifle annoyed at the encounter. It was late— 
he had had a long journey and a disappointing day—he wished 
very naturally to go to bed. And young Wingrave, as he 
somewhat contemptuously called him in his thoughts, had 
evidently been waiting up on purpose to speak to him. What 
could the fellow want? Something to do with his sister, he 
supposed. Perhaps he had some explanation to offer in re¬ 
gard to the anomalous position in which Soames had dis¬ 
covered himself upon his arrival in London. 

He was deeply mortified, and reluctant to hear anything 
from Eustace. It was his father who ought to have explained 
and apologized, too, for bringing him here at all. . . . 

Nevertheless he turned, retraced his footsteps, and followed 
Eustace into the study. The window was open; the room 
was on a level with the street; they were disturbed frequently 
by the passing of pedestrians on the pavement just outside, or 
by the stir of belated traffic. 

The air that came languidly in at the window was hot and 
enervating and filled with the composite odors of a great city. 
The opposite houses showed closed and shuttered windows 
that gazed like blind eyes upon the street. No stir of life in 
any of them. Probably the inhabitants had already fled to 
cooler regions of mountain or sea. . . . 

The two men sat down at a table near the window so as 
to obtain as much air as possible. Eustace pushed a box of 
cigarettes toward Soames. They both smoked for a few 
minutes in silence. 

‘Tm afraid my father didn’t understand exactly how mat¬ 
ters stood here at present, or he would hardly have persuaded 
you to come,” Eustace said, at length, wondering how he could 
best achieve the highly disagreeable task he had voluntarily 
undertaken. 

Soames must have been deceived. No other explanation 
was possible. And it was only fair that he should know the 
truth. 

Perhaps if he had not at one time declared his love for 
Barbara in perfervid terms, Eustace might have been able 
to feel more compassion for him now. But it was impossible, 


AN AWKWARD SITUATION 


301 


he felt, to show a great measure of pity for a man whose 
affections were able to shift with such rapid ease from one 
sister to the other. A man, too, who refused to accept a 
perfectly plain answer, but who went on battering at doors 
when he must have seen that they were emphatically closed 
against him. 

“How matters stood?” he repeated. “How do they stand?” 

His sharp eyes regarded Eustace with a quick penetrating 
glance. 

“About Vicky. My father must have been buoying you up 
with false hopes all this time—assuring you that Vicky didn’t 
know her own mind—although she’d told you quite plainly 
that she didn’t mean to marry you.” 

“He said I wasn’t to pay any attention to that—that Vicky 
never meant what she said. I trusted him to know and 
understand her better than I could possibly do.” 

Soames’ face was rather ghastly, in the searching rays of 
a powerful unshaded electric lamp. It made him look older 
than his years, and the lines on his thin peaked face were 
brought into strong relief. 

“Well, the unfortunate part of it is that he’s never troubled 
to try and understand her,” said Eustace. “He was awfully 
keen about the marriage, so he persuaded himself that she was 
keen too—was only holding back temporarily. I think he 
really believed it—he can make himself believe almost any¬ 
thing,” he added, with the relentless criticism of youth. 

As he proceeded, his task became easier. There was noth¬ 
ing like a plain unvarnished statement of fact to dispel mis¬ 
understandings. He wished he could have felt more sorry for 
Soames, but then he never even ought to have contemplated 
marrying a young fairy-child like Vicky. He should have 
foreseen that she could never reciprocate his love. 

“There’s something else you ought to hear, which’ll cer¬ 
tainly show you that Vicky does know her own mind,” he 
continued. “But you mustn’t blame my father for not telling 
you—he didn’t know it himself until this evening. Vicky is 
engaged to be married.” 

“Engaged—without his knowledge or consent?” exclaimed 


302 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Ernest, in a surprised, deeply-mortified tone. "‘You can't be 
serious—you must be making an extraordinary mistake!” 

Eustace' deep-set glowing eyes were fixed upon his face. 

“I'm not making a mistake—I’m in Vicky’s confidence, you 
see. She and I have always been pals. . . . It’s perfectly 
true, but they know my father’ll never give his consent, so 
they’ll just get married without it. He’s very angry, of 
course,” Eustace added simply; “there was a scene after you’d 
gone out.” 

Soames, who throughout the interview had maintained a 
sullen and morose aspect, now looked like a man who had 
inadvertently disturbed a hornet’s nest. So there had been a 
scene. Judging by Wingrave’s face it must have been a 
stormy one. 

“Whom is she going to marry?” he asked, nor yet fully 
convinced. 

“Martin Sedgwick.” 

“Martin Sedgwick? That boy who was so badly wounded 
and who spent such ages at Pendre a year or two ago?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then it can’t be—it isn’t—a new thing ? . . .” 

“No. It began then, although Vicky was such a child. 
Sedgwick’s as fit as a fiddle now, and he’s got a thundering 
good job at the War Office.” 

Soames’ face was set in hard lines. But he bore his defeat 
well—so well that Eustace could not withhold from him a 
faint reluctant admiration. Soames knew when he was 
beaten, when in fact he had lost the hole upon which the 
game depended. 

But Ernest’s first anger was not directed against Vicky 
herself—she had always been perfectly frank and straight¬ 
forward in her dealings with him; nor against Eustace, who 
had finally taken upon himself to tell him the exact and un¬ 
palatable truth; nor even against Martin, that young hero 
who had stepped in so lightly and secured the coveted prize. 
No, it was against his former friend, Lord Pendre, that his 
slow deep anger was rising. 

“She could never have cared about me at all. She must 


AN AWKWARD SITUATION 


303 


have been thinking of Sedgwick all the time,” he remarked 
bitterly. “She meant every word she said. She wasn’t a 
child who didn’t know her own mind, as your father sug¬ 
gested.” 

But whether Lord Pendre could ultimately be induced to 
give his consent to his daughter’s marriage with Sedgwick, 
mattered not at all to Soames. It could make no difference 
to his own position, since Vicky had never cared in the least 
degree for him. He could remember young Sedgwick quite 
well—a very good-looking likable boy who had borne his phys¬ 
ical sufferings with unusual fortitude. It was evidently a boy 
and girl affair that had ripened into something deeper and 
more serious as Vicky developed from child to woman. Yes, 
all this time she had cared very deeply for another man. He 
could picture them together—young, beautiful, attractive. 
And he felt that it would be difficult to keep them ultimately 
apart. 

In that moment of quiet reflection Soames renounced all 
hope of winning Vicky. He could even have said with 
Oceanus: 

Have ye beheld the young God of the seas, 

My dispossessor? Have ye seen his face? 

I saw him on the calmed waters scud 
With such a glow of beauty in his eyes 
That it enforced me to bid sad farewell 
To all my empire . . . 

Lord Pendre had utterly deceived himself upon the point, 
and, what was worse, he had drawn Soames into the tangled 
web of his own self-deception. He had duped him all along, 
by specious promises and assertions that had not the remotest 
foundation in fact. And he had brought him hither, ostensibly 
to carry the affair to a triumphant conclusion. The wound 
to Soames’ pride was productive of the bitterest feelings 
toward his host, and he had the justice to exonerate Vicky 
from all blame in the matter. He deeply resented being 
placed in such an ambiguous and false position. Undignified, 
too, and humiliating. . . . 

“I loved her—I wanted to marry her. I ought to have been 


304 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


warned of this other attachment. One naturally expects a 
father to know something of his own child’s feelings.” 

“Well, Vicky and I have never been what you’d call in¬ 
timate with him,” said Eustace. “It was different with Bar¬ 
bara and Phip. He exhausted all his affection on those two— 
they could never do wrong, in his eyes. Vicky and I came 
on the scene a little too late.” 

Throughout his quiet speech there was a distinct strain of 
bitterness. 

“And he knew nothing of this affair with young Sedg¬ 
wick ?” 

“Well, he knew enough to put a stop to the correspondence 
between them more than a year ago. Directly he discovered 
it, in fact. And he made an awful row when he heard they’d 
met in the Pendre woods one day last spring. Martin just 
came down to say good-bye to Vicky before going abroad, but 
unfortunately my father spotted him at the station. The air 
went blue for miles !” 

“I can’t understand his motive for bringing me here to¬ 
day !” 

“Oh, he probably thought he could arrange the whole thing 
—he’s been accustomed nearly all his life to doing deals of 
one sort and another. He seems to have a kind of hypnotic 
effect upon the other side, judging by the result! You see, 
he thought it would be the best thing in the world for Vicky 
to marry you—and it would put her out of reach of an im¬ 
pecunious young man like Martin. You were a son-in-law 
after his own heart—he paid you that compliment!” Eustace’ 
voice was dry and ironical. “He’s always looked upon Vicky 
as a very troublesome, tiresome child who must simply be 
made to obey. We’ll do him the justice to believe he wasn’t 
for any reason anxious to get rid of her. But she wasn’t 
pulling well with Pamela Webb, and that caused a certain 
amount of friction at home. Miss Webb likes living at 
Pendre, and of course my people are glad to have her there. 
I can’t tell you any more than that. But I’m awfully sorry 
you were misled about it.” 


AN AWKWARD SITUATION 305 

“So she was to be forced to marry me against her will?” 
said Soames, bitterly. “A nice position for us both !” 

He, at any rate, had been guiltless of any share in the in¬ 
trigue. He had only been a willing and rather foolish dupe. 
But he hadn’t schemed to get Vicky against her will. 

Realizing this, Eustace said in a more friendly tone: 

“She’s had a roughish time lately. I wonder it hasn’t made 
her downright ill. Martin just came at the psychological 
moment.” 

“What’ll they do ? Marry without Lord Pendre’s consent ?” 

“I suppose so. They’ve got enough-—at least he has. And 
my mother approves.” 

“And Vicky’s happy?” 

He nodded. “Rather. Her wants are easily satisfied—she’s 
never cared at all about money. And there’s another thing, 
though my father doesn’t know it yet. Martin’s become a 
Catholic—he was received while he was in Malta. You know 
what my father thinks about Catholics in general, but for a 
man who’s deliberately become one—put his head into the 
noose—he’s got nothing but contempt.” 

“A Catholic?” repeated Ernest. 

“I say, Soames, I’m really beastly sorry for you,” said 
Eustace, holding out his hand with an impulsive gesture, “but 
I simply had to tell you—for your own sake. It didn’t seem 
fair.” 

Soames took the proffered hand and grasped it cordially. 

“You were quite right,” he said, “the only pity is that you 
didn’t tell me long ago. I shall push off home early to¬ 
morrow, and I’ll leave a note for your father, telling him 
I’ve renounced all idea I ever had of marrying Vicky. I 
wish,” he added, with a sudden burst of generous feeling 
that touched Eustace indescribably, “that I could feel this 
would make things a bit easier for her. But tell her from 
me that I hope she’ll be very happy indeed. I remember young 
Sedgwick quite well—a charming boy—I’m sure he’s worthy 
of her. She doesn’t mind his being a Catholic, I suppose?” 

“Not in the least. In fact, she rather likes it. I shouldn’t 
be surprised if she became one herself.” 


306 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“Really? Your father won’t like that.” 

“I’ll be sure to give her your message,” continued Eustace. 
“It’s been awfully good of you to take it like this, and to see 
that Vicky isn’t really to blame. She always said, though, 
that you were a sport!” 

Soames’ smile was a little dry, yet Eustace could see that 
he was rather pleased than otherwise to have had this flatter¬ 
ing term applied to him. “Old sport” it had probably been, 
but Eustace had spared him the unpleasing adjective. 

“Well, I suppose it’s time to turn in,” remarked Eustace, 
rising. “And you’ll make it quite clear to my father, won’t 
you, that you consider the whole thing’s off ?” 

“Yes—if he doesn’t believe it you can tell him all I’ve 
said. I’m most awfully sorry, too, to think Vicky’s been so 
worried about it. Poor child!” and he sighed. 

“And Soames—” Eustace hesitated. 

“Yes?” He wondered w T hat more there was to come. 

“About Miss Tresham. ...” 

“What about Miss Tresham?” 

“She’s all right, I suppose, with Mrs. Dyrham? Happy 
and all that ?” 

There was a restrained eagerness in his manner that did 
not escape Soames. 

“I’ve only seen her once or twice since she went there— 
she looked a little pulled down. I fancy she misses her 
mother. Mrs. Dyrham talks of taking her abroad in the 
winter, perhaps to Rome. I daresay the change of scene 
would do her good.” 

“If you should see her again, please remember me to her.” 

“I certainly will.” 

“Good-night, Soames.” 

“Good-night, Wingrave” 


CHAPTER XVI 


Flight 

1 

S UNDAY morning duly witnessed the hurried and almost 
surreptitious departure of Ernest Soames from Hill 
Street. He took care to time his exit before there was any 
chance of meeting either Lord Pendre or his wife. 

Eustace’ revelations had completely opened his eyes, and 
he was bound to acknowledge that his friendship for Lord 
Pendre had received a severe blow. No doubt they would 
still in the future play golf together, and even meet amicably 
upon the Bench, but the old intimacy was surely gone forever. 

He had admired him, his success, his industry, his capacity 
for organization, the untiring ardor of a man who permits 
nothing to hinder his quest for wealth, and it had been some¬ 
thing of a shock to discover that he was capable of trying to 
force his young daughter into a marriage that was entirely 
distasteful to her, knowing all the time, too, that she cared 
very much for another man. It was true, then—this legendary 
harshness, this reiterated story of the fierce autocratic temper, 
with which gossip had so plentifully endowed him. Soames 
in his blindness had always refused to believe it. He had on 
the contrary been struck with Lord Pendre’s avowed solici¬ 
tude for Vicky’s happiness, his determined efforts to promote 
it. Now these pleasing illusions were all destroyed, and 
Ernest blamed the man bitterly for having made him look a 
fool. 

He left a brief note for his host, regretting his summary 
departure, which he felt to be inevitable after Eustace dis¬ 
closures, and categorically relinquishing all hope or intention 
of marrying Vicky. 


307 


308 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW. 


He felt that, on the whole, his exit was sufficiently dignified. 
His note had not been lacking in a veiled reproof; so much 
he considered Lord Pendre deserved. 

Lord Pendre received the letter with his early cup of tea. 
He read it, crushed it up in his hand and flung it across the 
room. It seemed to put a touch of finality to his wife’s 
efforts on behalf of Vicky. But, in a manner, he was thank¬ 
ful that Eustace had explained the position to Soames. It 
would save him from undertaking that disagreeable and grace¬ 
less task himself. Whether he had been consciously deceiving 
himself all the time, it would have been difficult to say; but 
in imposing his own point of view upon Soames, he had been 
strongly actuated by the conviction that he could in the end 
dominate Vicky. . . . 

It had been an exceedingly unpleasant surprise to arrive in 
London only to find Vicky fled, and his wife and son strongly 
and openly arrayed against him in the matter. He had there¬ 
fore awakened that morning to the knowledge that he would 
certainly have to divulge the whole truth to Soames, who was 
a man of hot temper and might quite justifiably indulge in 
recriminations. Mercifully Eustace had already relieved him 
of the task; he had interposed fearlessly, and it was some¬ 
thing of a relief to think that Soames had taken himself off 
without attempting to see him again or have an explanatory 
interview. 

Still, there remained the task of setting his own house in 
order—not an easy one, judging by his wife’s mood last night. 
It spelt danger, and there was always one point upon which 
she could injure him, destroying with light flick the very 
fabric of their happiness. 

Scruples were stirring within her. They always heralded 
danger. Except for that momentary outburst at the time of 
Phip’s death, he had been troubled by few fears of the kind 
during their married life. But the danger was always there, 
although it was kept sedulously in the background. The 
danger that her conscience might awaken from its long coma 
and reassert its old sway over her. And last night he had 
even felt that the dreadful moment might be near at hand. 


FLIGHT 309 

This fear had forced him into silence. For, after all, it was 
Giselda who could deal the final and devastating blow. 

The one deep and absorbing passion of the man’s life was 
his love for his beautiful wife. Love that always breeds fear 
had given rise to a peculiar and unusual fear in his heart. 
But he had kept her rigidly apart from the things that might 
conceivably arise to separate them. He was indeed as jeal¬ 
ously afraid of those former influences as in other circum¬ 
stances he might have been of some quondam lover. For one 
never knew when an early formative influence might arise 
and resume its ancient primitive sway, perhaps with a new 
force and a fiercer energy after those years of desuetude. 
Demanding love instead of neglect, obedience instead of re¬ 
bellion, insisting too, upon sacrifice and the renunciation of 
all those things that imperilled the immortal soul. . . . 

Oh, he had always felt that one day he and his wife would 
inevitably stand at the crossroads, and that he would be called 
upon to engage in that final and perhaps decisive conflict with 
his ancient enemy for the possession of the woman he so 
loved. And who could tell whether he would emerge from 
that conflict victor or vanquished? . . . 

When he went down to breakfast, he found himself alone in 
the dining room. Eustace had not appeared, and his wife had 
sent a message to say she was too tired, after a sleepless night, 
to get up. 

He decided to postpone his journey to Hove till the next 
day. Traveling in the crowded Sunday trains, filled with 
August holiday-makers, did not appeal to his fastidious no¬ 
tions of comfort. And it would do no harm to leave Vicky 
there for one more day. She would have plenty of leisure in 
which to repent her rash rebellious action when she was safely 
back at Pendre. There would be no more talk of Martin 
Sedgwick then. 

2 

Eustace came into the room. 

“Good-morning, Dad. You’ve had Soames’ note, I sup¬ 
pose?” 


310 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“What’s this you’ve been telling him about Vicky?” de¬ 
manded his father, frowning. 

“I told him the truth—that Vicky had no intention of marry¬ 
ing him—that she was engaged to Martin. It was about time 
someone told him, don’t you think? Poor old Soames has 
been living in a kind of fool’s paradise all these weeks.” 

His cool satirical tone acted like an irritant upon Lord 
Pendre’s nerves. He did not bear defeat well; a hint of op¬ 
position roused his worst passions. And he felt that Eustace 
had contributed to that defeat by the strong support he had 
bestowed upon his sister. 

“Look here,” he said, “I won’t have any more talk about 
this young Sedgwick. I’m not going to let Vicky marry a 
pauper. She shall just come back to Pendre and behave her¬ 
self. I shall fetch her to-morrow.” 

He wanted to make it quite clear that Ernest Soames’ exit 
from the stage would in no way facilitate Vicky’s engagement 
to Martin. He was still master in his own house, thank God; 
he would put a stop to anything of that kind! 

“And I should like to know how long you intend to idle 
about in this way, encouraging your sister in all kinds of 
folly?” he pursued. 

“I’m willing to work,” said Eustace, evasively. “I’d rather, 
though, it wasn’t at Wingrave’s.” 

“And why not at Wingrave’s?” 

“Because I prefer a free outdoor life. Somehow I don’t 
believe I could stick being shut up in an office, just to make 
money.” 

“You’ll never make any money unless you do.” 

Eustace was silent. 

“And a nice farmer you’d make—mooning about!” 

“I could learn.” 

“Soon I shall only be able to offer you an ordinary clerk’s 
billet. I can’t keep this job that was waiting for Phip open 
forever. And Gerard Hammond’s younger brother is awfully 
keen about having it. He’s very clever, took a good degree 
at Oxford; he’s got any amount of energy and tenacity.” 

“Then you’d better give it to him. It’ll please Barbara,” 


FLIGHT 


311 


Eustace said wearily. “Don’t consider me, Dad. Give me 
a younger son’s portion—I’ve never wanted anything that 
ought to have been Phip’s.” 

“What is it that you do want, then? Let’s hear!” sneered 
his father. 

Eustace wondered ironically what he would have said and 
thought if he could have received a perfectly frank, unre¬ 
served answer to that question. Many sons, more happily 
placed than himself, would have given it so eagerly, sure of 
sympathetic comprehension. 

Supposing he had answered simply: “I want to be a 
Catholic and marry Nella Tresham,” what an explosion of 
wrath and scorn would have descended upon him! He was 
sick of these perpetual scenes, and was aware that as long as 
he remained at home, apparently idle and purposeless, they 
were bound to continue. 

To be a Catholic, to marry Nella. To live somewhere quite 
simply and obscurely but very happily. And then perhaps in 
the years to come to inherit Pendre and light the Lamp that 
had been for so long extinguished. A chapel at Pendre. The 
Holy Sacrifice once more offered there daily for the living 
and the dead. . . . 

Lord Pendre glanced irritably at his son. When he was in 
this obstinately taciturn and reticent mood one could never 
get anything out of him. No doubt he was hatching some 
plot in his head, with the intention of springing further dis¬ 
agreeable surprises upon his parents. A secretive fellow— 
probably up to no good. Lord Pendre felt that he received 
no consolation from any of his children except Barbara. 
They were all tacitly arrayed against him, with rebellion 
smouldering in their hearts. But if he could not exact love 
from them, he could at any rate insist upon obedience and sub¬ 
mission. Vicky wouldn’t have an easy time when she got 
back to Pendre. 

The thought of Vicky made him say with sudden sharpness: 

“If you see Sedgwick, you can jolly well tell him not to 
show his face here. He’ll get something he won’t like if he 


312 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


does. Vicky isn’t of age, and he’ll have a letter from my 
lawyers forbidding him to molest her.” 

“You needn’t be afraid. He isn’t likely to come.” 

“I don’t trust any of you.” 

Lord Pendre went out of the room. He did not like to dis¬ 
turb his wife after her bad night, and he was feeling at rather 
a loose end. The airless heat of an August day in London 
seemed to him abominably enervating after the cool sea and 
mountain air of Pendre. He wished he had never come up 
to town on this wild-goose chase. It was the first time that 
any carefully laid and contrived plan of his had met with 
unsuccess, and the thought was a highly distasteful one to 
him. His defeat had also been complicated by things that 
had still further embittered it. He must have forfeited at 
least something of the good opinion of Soames, who would 
no longer accredit him with such sober and wise judgment 
and accurate vision. He might justifiably regard him as a 
man who knew nothing of what was passing in his own house 
nor in the minds of his children. And what was worse than 
the loss of prestige in the eyes of his most influential neigh¬ 
bor, Lord Pendre had evoked a glimpse, momentary but highly 
significant, of his wife’s stirring conscience. That was some¬ 
thing which might have far-reaching and very disastrous con¬ 
sequences. It made him feel that he was growing old, and 
that his hand had lost something of its ancient cunning. 

Presently Eustace heard him leave the house, banging the 
front door after him. Probably he had gone to his club, to 
enjoy a little peace and freedom from domestic worry. 

3 

Eustace went to the Oratory, choosing that church because 
he hoped to find Martin there, and to hear from him how 
Vicky had fared on her journey to Hove. He was already 
aware that Martin had not been able, owing to an important 
engagement, to remain in Hove for the week-end as they had 
originally hoped, but was to have returned to town on the 
preceding evening. 


FLIGHT 


313 


As Eustace was leaving the church after Mass, he saw 
Martin’s fair head lifted a little above the crowd. He was 
making his way slowly toward the big middle door. His face 
brightened when he perceived Eustace waiting for him on the 
steps outside, 

“Tell me what’s happened,” he said, as they turned into 
the Brompton Road. 

“Oh, there’s been an awful shine! But I told old Soames 
the truth, and he went off to Moth Hill early this morning. 
Pushed off before any one was up. I fancy there’ll be a cool¬ 
ness between him and Dad for a bit. Still, it’s ‘something 
accomplished, something done,’ ” he quoted, ironically. 

“It is indeed,” replied Martin, with an air of relief. 

“Tell me about Vicky.” 

“Oh, I took her down to Miss Brigstocke’s—the old lady 
was frightfully pleased to see her again. Purred over her 
like anything! I think it’ll do her good—the change and 
complete rest. I thought of running down again to-morrow 
to have a look at her if I can get off.” 

“I shouldn’t advise it. The governor’s going down to¬ 
morrow to fetch her back, and she’s to be marched off to 
Pendre.” 

“Can’t your mother do anything to prevent it?” 

Eustace shook his head. “She’s done all she can—I’ve 
never known her to do half so much for any of us before. 
She showed him her hand—that she meant to back Vicky. 
But there’s one thing, Martin—old Soames won’t give us any 
more trouble—he’s frightfully sick with Dad about the whole 
show. Thinks he’s been deceived and duped and all the rest 
of it. He was quite decent about Vicky.” 

“It’ll be awful for her at Pendre now.” 

“Yes. But we must manage something.” 

“I wish I could marry her to-morrow.” 

“I wish you could, old thing. But Dad told me to warn 
you not to show your face anywhere about or you’d get a 
letter from his lawyer ! And he doesn’t know the worst about 
you yet!” 

“The worst?” 


314 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“That you’re a Catholic. ...” 

“I’m so glad Lady Pendre doesn’t mind my being one,” 
said Martin, “and she knows just what it entails too. I be¬ 
lieve she could have taught Vicky more about the Church 
than she cares to admit. She must have had a good deal to 
do with it at some time or other. Do you think she was ever 
under instruction?” 

“I shouldn’t think so, unless it was before her marriage, 
but she never speaks of that time. We only know that she 
lived abroad a good deal with her father, and it’s quite pos¬ 
sible she may have come into contact with the Church then. 
Her father died soon after her marriage, and somehow I 
don t think her life with him could have been very happy. 
He gambled—he’d run through practically all their money. 
They were awfully hard up and living in Rome when Dad 
met them.” 

“In Rome!” echoed Martin. “Well, she could hardly live 
there for any length of time without learning a little about 
the Church.” 

“I suppose not,” agreed Eustace. 

Yet, what had it held for her—that old roving life, with 
its perpetual wandering from hotel to hotel, from pension to 
pension, from one dingy lodging to another? She, a young 
girl and so lovely, with for sole companion her old, ill, rather 
disreputable father ? Surely it must have been for her a kind 
of prolonged martyrdom. And when Hugo Wingrave ap¬ 
peared on the scene, eager, wealthy, desperately in love, 
though past his first youth, must he not have appeared to her 
in the light of a rescuer to whom she owed at least all her 
gratitude, if not all her love? When Eustace thought of her 
thus, he could assure himself that her life, since her marriage, 
couldn’t have been altogether unhappy; it must have held im¬ 
mense compensations, such as perhaps few women, even the 
very happy ones, possessed. 

But the more he considered the matter in the illumination 
of recent events, the more profoundly was he convinced that 
her married life had held for her soma subtle form of spiritual 
suffering. There was something—some shadow—that 


FLIGHT 


315 


darkened that life, separating his parents spiritually. It was 
the enemy of peace if not of actual happiness. He could only 
dimly judge of its nature by the way they both reacted to its 
invisible influence. And now he had become convinced that 
whatever it was, it was most deeply and intimately associated 
with the mysterious and baleful shadow that hung over Pen- 
dre, and that indeed seemed to follow them wherever they 
went. The shadow that Vicky had in her childish imaginings 
attributed to a manifestation of Divine displeasure toward 
some sin secretly committed. 

Last night Eustace had felt swamped and engulfed in its 
darkness, while he groped blindly for the clues that forever 
eluded him. When he had gone out of the drawing-room, 
unable to remain any longer, afraid indeed of what he might 
hear if he stayed, there had been something in his mother’s 
face that had terrified him. And through it all he was con¬ 
scious that paradoxically she loved his father, and was afraid 
of this thing that had the awful power to intervene and sepa¬ 
rate them. And he knew then that, whatever it was, the sin— 
if sin there had been—was hers. It was her doing. The 
shadow was upon her. He seemed to see her drowning in its 
darkness. There was terror in the thought .... 

To him she was a saint, far removed from sin or error. He 
longed to stretch out his hands, and rescue her from that 
drowning darkness. 

They walked almost in silence across the Park. The grass 
was burnt brown, there was not a blade of green visible. Some 
of the leaves were already falling from the plane trees—big, 
parched, shriveled star-shaped things, brittle to the touch as 
charred paper. 

Martin’s thoughts were full of Vicky, Eustace’ of his 
mother. They parted at Stanhope Gate, Martin making some 
excuse for not accompanying him further. 

“If I do go down to Hove to-morrow I’ll dodge your 
father,” said Martin. “I feel I must see her again before she 
goes back to Pendre, and make some plan for the future.” 

“Don’t let anything come between you, Martin,” urged 
Eustace. 


316 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Martin looked down upon him with his bright blue eyes. 

“As if I should—as if I could! Don’t you see this is a 
matter of life and death to me? We shall simply go off and 
be married if I can’t get her in any other way. I don’t know 
what the Church would say about that—I must ask. When 
one’s a Catholic one’s always up against it.” He grinned 
delightfully. 

“Surely they’d let you, if my mother gives her consent?” 

“I should think so—but Vicky’ll have to make all those 
promises.” 

“Oh, Martin—she’ll be a Catholic herself soon, I’m certain 
of it! She and I have often wanted a religion—we’ve never 
had any.” 

“And you?” 

“Oh, I’ve been on the road for ages!” His smile was very 
bright. 

“I’m glad of that. I shouldn’t like you and Vicky to feel 
separated.” 

They parted, and Martin strode off in the direction of 
Knightsbridge, while Eustace returned full of thought to 
Hill Street. 

3 

Miss Brigstocke lived in a modest villa in the western 
purlieus of Hove. The tiny modern red-brick house stood a 
little away from the sea and possessed a small strip of garden, 
back and front, wherein nothing much seemed to thrive except 
the inevitable neat hedges of euonymus and a few unhealthy- 
looking marigolds. Most self-respecting plants declined alto¬ 
gether to flourish there, tormented as they were by the bleak, 
bracing winds that visit Brighton and its environs at all 
seasons of the year. 

She was a woman of frugal habit and few wants. When 
once she had recovered from her abrupt and unjust dismissal, 
she had come to enjoy her freedom and solitude. Lord Pendre 
had bought the freehold of her little house, and she was to 
retain possession of it for life. He also gave her a pension to 


FLIGHT 


31 7 


supplement her own tiny income. But the scheme was less 
generous than it appeared at first glance, for land was steadily 
rising in value in that part of Hove, and he had made a calcu¬ 
lation that by the time Miss Brigstocke died the sum he would 
be able to obtain for the property would cover the whole out¬ 
lay of house and pension, and give him, besides, an adequate 
interest on the capital. This aspect of the matter had 
naturally never occurred to Miss Brigstocke, who accepted the 
provision in a spirit of warmest gratitude. 

Martin brought Vicky down, but was only able to stop and 
have a cup of tea with them, as an unexpected engagement re¬ 
called him to London. It was a disappointment to them both 
that he could not remain in Hove for the week-end as he had 
originally intended to do. Miss Brigstocke was delighted to 
see him again and to hear of the engagement. It was only 
after he had gone that she learned from Vicky the true state 
of affairs, and she was dismayed to find that her presence 
there was still unknown to her father. 

Vicky’s visit during the first twenty-four hours of her stay, 
gave Miss Brigstocke the most unqualified pleasure, except 
indeed when she stopped to consider what Lord Pendre 
might have to say about it when it came to his ears. She had 
a great deal to hear, but what amazed her chiefly in the girl’s 
recital was her father’s extraordinary pertinacity in regard to 
Soames. He was far too old, and not in her opinion at all 
the right person for dear Vicky. She had been at Pendre 
during his brief and unsuccessful courtship of Barbara, but 
that, however, had never seemed so inherently unsuitable. 

Miss Brigstocke had trained herself to think well of people, 
and, where it was possible, to like them. She had almost 
always succeeded in these dual difficult aims, and she had even 
succeeded where her late employer was concerned, cherishing 
a secret admiration for his formidable and somewhat for¬ 
bidding personality. His iron will and enormous physical 
strength had made him attractive in her eyes until the day 
when she first beheld them wielded against Vicky, and then 
her loyalty was strained to breaking-point. Although not 
silent she had believed him strong, and his tenacity, his harsh 


318 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


autocratic temper, his limitless success and apparently limit¬ 
less wealth, had combined to make his personality the most 
significant and arresting one she had ever encountered. Such 
a man, she felt, could be forgiven much; and to find that she 
was unable to forgive him on that occasion, showed her the 
extent to which he had fallen in her regard. 

When she had first gone to Pendre she had believed that 
people so situated must surely be the happiest in the world. 
Hugo Wingrave—as he was then—with his beautiful wife 
and four handsome attractive children—seemed to her one of 
the most favored of men. And yet there was a flaw in the 
happiness of this richly endowed couple. There was some¬ 
thing. ... It wasn’t all the fault of his fierce ungovernable 
temper, which both his younger children were, alas, so prone 
to rouse. It was something deeper than that. But Miss Brig- 
stocke belonged to the Victorian era, she was more sentimental 
than imaginative, and thus she had lived in the darkness of 
the Shadow for ten years without realizing it. 

Still, she had known that something was amiss. It wasn’t 
only Lord Pendre’s inexplicably harsh attitude toward Vicky, 
although in any other man she would have deemed it a serious 
fault of character. At first she had almost believed that 
Vicky’s disposition was not good, that she had some childish 
tendency to err that required a special discipline, a meticulous 
correction. But as she became more closely and intimately 
acquainted with the child, she could discover no such tendency. 
She was highly-strung, nervous, imaginative, swift to respond 
to affection. It was the treatment she received that had 
rendered her at once timid and rebellious. Fear drove her to 
unheard-of extremes of reckless audacity. Miss Brigstocke, 
despite her admiration for Lord Pendre, soon betrayed a 
desperate inclination to hide Vicky from his sight whenever 
she heard him approaching. And when Barbara ranged her¬ 
self so strongly, so openly, on her father’s side, she began to 
find it very hard indeed either to like her or to think well of 
her. 

She had her heresies, though, being prudent, she kept them 
to herself. People in her dependent position had to be as 


FLIGHT 


319 


wise as serpents, she was fond of saying. But privately she 
held the opinion, even then at the moment of her engagement, 
that Pamela wasn’t good enough for Philip Wingrave. He 
was of all the Wingraves the most attractive. His beautiful 
sunny disposition harmonized with his perfect face and phys¬ 
ique. And Miss Brigstocke formed the opinion that Pamela 
was coldly ambitious. Even then Vicky and Pamela had been 
oddly antagonistic. After Philip’s death Pamela’s influence at 
Pendre had quietly deepened. She slipped into the place of 
elder daughter, left vacant by Barbara’s marriage to Gerard 
Hammond. 

Miss Brigstocke had strongly though secretly championed 
her little pupil. She cherished and comforted her. She won 
her confidence. She loved her, discerning so much that was 
beautiful in the child’s mind, so much, alas, that was warped 
and frustrated by mismanagement in her by no means easy 
character. It had been a grief to them both when the hour 
of separation sounded, so suddenly, so inexorably. Miss 
Brigstocke was a sentinel who had fallen asleep at her post. 
She could expect no quarter any more than could a luckless 
sentinel. 

What she did not know was that Pamela had previously 
warned Lord Pendre that Miss Brigstocke had acquired too 
great an influence over Vicky—declaring that without her 
support she was certain the girl would prove more amenable. 
She hinted, too, that Miss Brigstocke must have known of 
that unsuspected love-affair between Martin and Vicky. . . . 

Lord Pendre had therefore only required a definite im¬ 
mediate excuse for getting rid of Miss Brigstocke. Besides, 
Vicky was too old now to need her any more. She had al¬ 
ready almost ceased to do lessons, for which she had never 
at any time shown either aptitude or liking. . . . 

The sorrow of leaving her pupil had, however, been in 
some measure compensated for by the independence she now 
enjoyed. Still, Miss Brigstocke felt that some peculiar crisis, 
some pressing emergency, must have arisen to prompt them 
to send Vicky down to her at such short notice. She was a 
little dismayed when she discovered that it had all been ac- 


320 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


complished without Lord Pendre’s knowledge or consent. 
It seemed to jeopardize her own position. But she was too 
generous to permit these sordid considerations to diminish her 
present pleasure, or militate against the warm welcome she 
had prepared for Vicky. 

There was a great deal to hear, and she enjoyed the recital. 
Her own life was so retired, so eventless, that the little 
romance had a kind of vicarious charm for her. She liked to 
think there was still a world where dramatic things happened, 
where there were young people who loved each other and ex¬ 
perienced the same thrills and hopes and fears she had 
known in her own youth. Vicky became important in her 
eyes. She had developed extraordinarily in the last few 
months. She had acquired a certain decision of character. 
Her prettiness, never of a conventonal type, was now almost 
striking. She still wore her glossy dark hair brushed off her 
brow in the old way; it was “shingled” now, and displayed the 
perfect shape of her small head, giving it an almost boyish 
aspect. 

Vicky was obviously determined to marry Martin, and to 
marry him too as soon as possible. But when Miss Brigstocke 
thought of Lord Pendre, her heart sank a little. She knew 
just how hard and harsh and tyrannical he could be. He was 
a kind of super-man, arrogant, determined, almost unscrupu¬ 
lous in his fierce tenacity of purpose. Those qualities made 
for temporal success, but not for domestic peace. He was 
immensely strong, and to achieve a desired end he did not 
hesitate to use that strength. He would do all he could 
to separate Vicky and Martin. Whether he would succeed in 
forcing her to marry Ernest Soames was another matter. 
But Miss Brigstocke had seen him make Vicky do many things 
that were highly repugnant to her, and she was not prepared 
to pontify on the matter. 

“Martin’s become a Catholic,” said Vicky. “He told me 
he’d been thinking about it for a long time. And he was 
received while he was in Malta.” 

“You’ll never be allowed to marry him, in that case,” said 


FLIGHT 321 

Miss Brigstocke, who could perceive the essential hopeless¬ 
ness of the situation without this added obstacle. 

“Oh, we mean to take the law into our own hands,” replied 
Vicky. “Having Mummie on our side makes it all the easier. 
And she doesn’t mind his being a Catholic. Why, she even 
gave him the impression that she must have had leanings, as 
he called it, at some time or other!” 

The girl’s silver laugh rang out merrily; it had a glad 
young sound. 

“Oh, I think he must have been mistaken there,” said Miss 
Brigstocke; “Lady Pendre always seemed to me very perfect 
—almost a saint—but perhaps without any fixed belief in the 
matter of religion.” 

“I don’t know,” said Vicky, thoughtfully; “we’ve wondered 
about that sometimes, Eustie and I. . . . I thought she 
didn’t seem to object in the least to the idea of my becoming a 
Catholic too when X marry Martin. He’d like it, of course, 
and Mummie said I’d better be instructed, in any case. One 
needn’t go any further if one feels it wouldn’t be possible,” 
she added. 

Miss Brigstocke was a stout Churchwoman, and she had 
never lived in Catholic houses nor come much into contact 
with Catholics. She was therefore a little sorry to learn that 
Martin had become one; it wasn’t quite what she would have 
expected of him. She was astonished, too, that Vicky should 
be so complacently ready to follow his example. Such mar¬ 
riage would be more than ever distasteful to Lord Pendre, 
with his very crystallized views on the subject—one didn’t 
often meet with such fierce intolerance in these days. 

“Eustace won’t like that, will he?” she asked. 

“Oh, I think he’s half way to Rome himself. He was so 
awfully upset when Ernest Soames told us that the ballroom 
at Pendre used to be the chapel and that the Lamp had burned 
there for five centuries. We’ve always thought—and lately 
more than ever—that there’s something queer and uncanny 
about Pendre. Sinister—like a deep shadow brooding over it. 
I felt it pretty badly last spring, before we left for London. It 
made me thankful to get away. Eustie felt it, too. I told 


322 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


him that it made me feel as if one of us had offended God. 
But what could any of us have done? We may have bad 
tempers and rows, but those aren’t exactly crimes. What 
could any of us have done, dear Briggy?” 

She turned her big dark innocent eyes to the elder woman’s 
face, with a glance almost of appeal. 

“Oh, my dear—you mustn’t have such morbid thoughts! 
I’m surprised that Eustace should have encouraged you. 
You’re all living good straight lives. Your father may be 
harsh, but he’s honorable and upright. And your mother is 
a saint.” 

Vicky snuggled a little closer to her. 

“Perhaps it’s the atmosphere of an old Catholic house. 
I’ve felt at times as if the very stones at Pendre must regard 
us as rather godless usurpers and interlopers! And yet I’m 
pretty sure it can’t be only that. It’s something much more 
personal, that concerns ourselves. Something—oh, I can’t put 
it any differently—that one of us must have done to offend 
deliberately!” 

Miss Brigstocke was much more uncomfortably impressed 
by these disclosures than she would have liked to reveal. And 
her abounding common sense could suggest no words with 
which to combat or refute them. For had not she also been 
aware of Something at Pendre—something of so intangible a 
nature that she had never even thought of giving its expression 
in concrete terms? Vicky’s mind had always been morbidly 
alert to receive impressions, and it had been to counteract a 
tendency to introspection that Miss Brigstocke had always 
given her plenty of sheer hard study of bare plain facts such 
as dates, historical events, geographical details, and things 
that were capable of scientific demonstration. She was aware 
of the tortuous paths through which a highly active imagina¬ 
tion can lead its unfortunate possessor, and the strange, often 
sinister conclusions to which it can conduct a young, eager, 
and sensitive mind. 

“And, you see, Eustie felt it, too. It wasn’t only myself,” 
continued Vicky. “I hoped that he’d laugh at me, and per¬ 
haps call it one of my queer notions. But he didn’t—he’d had 


FLIGHT 323 

the same feeling. And it grew worse last spring. Briggy 
dear, what can it be?” 

Miss Brigstocke had no explanation to offer. It was some¬ 
thing of a shock to her—as it had been to Vicky—to find 
that Eustace shared these impressions, and had had no word 
of light mockery or reproof with which to silence his sister’s 
fears. 

Eustace wasn’t fanciful. He saw things as they were, in 
all their hard, naked truth. 

“We were walking on Moth Hill the first time we spoke of 
it,” pursued Vicky. “And we just clung together for comfort, 
like two frightened children. And that isn’t all, Briggy—” 

“Tell me,” said Miss Brigstocke. 

She was not a coward, but anything that remotely suggested 
the supernatural did alarm her. She would have faced a thief 
or a burglar with far greater courage than she would have 
displayed to a ghost. 

“I said something about it to Mummie—and she looked 
perfectly awful—so queer and startled. But she was very 
silent too, she didn’t say anything—only I could see by her 
face that she knew of it—knew perhaps what it was and why 
it was there. I never dared mention it again to her.” 

“Vicky—I mustn’t scold you now—but, my darling child, 
don’t let your mind dwell on such things. You ought to fill 
it only with happy, wholesome, good thoughts! You ought 
to spend more time out of doors, among the flowers, in the 
sunshine and the wind. And you ought to pray—” 

“I shall pray when I’m a Catholic,” said Vicky firmly. 
“Martin says that being one is a great help—that the Church 
may be hard in some of the laws she lays down, but she gives 
us every help to keep them—she makes us want to obey—to 
please Our Lord.” 

Her little face kindled. Martin had talked to her a great 
deal about it, and something in his eager enthusiasm had fired 
her imagination. “I expect I shall find life a much easier 
thing when I’m Catholic I shall understand just what God 
wants me to do. Everything is so confused and muddled now. 
I felt that more than ever when Dad said it was my duty to 


324 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


marry a man I didn’t love, just because he wished it. That 
made me know he couldn’t be my standard of right and wrong 
any more. And Martin said it would be a sin for me to marry 
Ernest Soames when I didn’t love him, but loved another man. 
It was a worse sin to marry Ernest than to disobey Dad!” 

“I hope you won’t take any steps about becoming a Catholic, 
without very great consideration,” said Miss Brigstocke, 
earnestly. “It’s such a very serious thing, and one that’ll 
make any reconciliation with your father quite out of the 
question. I don’t suppose Captain Sedgwick—” 

“He’s a major now,” interpolated Vicky—“doesn’t that 
make him seem elderly ?” 

“I was going to say that I don’t suppose Major Sedgwick 
has a great deal of money . . . .” 

“Oh, we both hate money,” said Vicky; “we mean to live 
in quite a small house or perhaps a couple of rooms.” 

“But setting aside that question, I can’t believe that your 
mother would approve of—of this change for you.” 

“Well, she’s as nearly sympathetic about it as I’ve ever 
known her about anything,” replied Vicky. “It’s been wonder¬ 
ful, the way she’s helped me all along. She couldn’t bear the 
idea of my marrying Ernest, either.” 

“Someone ought to tell Mr. Soames exactly what you feel 
about it, and then I’m sure he’d give up the idea. He seemed 
to me a very sensible man.” 

“I did tell him as plainly as I could, but he wasn’t allowed 
to believe me. Dad just made out I was a child who didn’t 
know her own mind. But, Briggy, I could only think how 
perfectly awful it would be if Martin came back from Malta, 
as he promised faithfully he would, in order to marry me, only 
to find that I was already Mrs. Soames of Moth Hill Park. 
Oh, it would have meant I should never see him again! I 
couldn’t face that, or the horrible thought that it would be a 
sin to go on loving him, thinking of him, as I did, any more.” 

“My dear Vicky,” murmured Miss Brigstocke, almost 
shocked at this plain speaking. 

“You know I’ve always had to think things out to their 
logical conclusion as far as I could see them. And that 


FLIGHT 


325 


seemed to be the bitter end of my marrying Ernest. It 
showed me just how much I loved Martin, and in spite of all 
the efforts that were being made to separate us, I was certain 
that no one else could ever be my husband. And now that 
I’m engaged to him—we’ve been engaged three weeks already 
—I thinks he’s a thousand times dearer and nicer than he ever 
was before. My heart seemed to stop beating when I saw him 
coming into the room with Eustie that Sunday—it was like a 
lovely dream. . . 

She leaned her elbow on the window sill, resting her cheek 
upon her hand. Outside, the little garden was full of the blue 
dusk of a summer twilight, and they could see white moths 
flitting ghost-like among the dark thick-set hedges of euony- 
mus. In the distance, too, they could hear the sustained 
rhythmic accompaniment of the sea beating on the hard 
shingly beach, with a clear calling sound. 

“I can hear the sea—it reminds me of Pendre. I always 
miss it so in London.” 

They talked till quite late that night. Miss Brigstocke in¬ 
sisted at last upon Vicky’s going to bed. She took her up to 
the neat little blue and white room which she had always 
hoped might one day be occupied by this beloved little guest. 

To-morrow was Monday, and one did not know what the 
day might hold in store for Vicky. Miss Brigstocke felt cer¬ 
tain that Lord Pendre was not likely to accept his daughter’s 
abrupt exit from the stage in a conciliatory spirit. He might 
even appear. Vicky must have a good night’s rest. 

Besides, the girl was looking tired and even exhausted. 
Two bright pink patches burned in her usually pale cheeks, 
and her eyes shone brilliantly, almost feverishly. 

“Vicky, I think you ought to stay in bed late to-morrow 
morning. Don’t dream of getting up for breakfast—Hannah 
shall bring you up some.” 

Vicky was lying in bed, and now she stretched out her two 
white thin arms and clasped them round Miss Brigstocke’s 
neck. 

“Very well, Briggy. I feel most awfully sleepy now. But 
I’m in hopes that Martin may come.” 


326 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

Miss Brigstocke hesitated. She owed a certain measure of 
loyalty to Lord Pendre for his continued generosity toward 
her. 

“Well, you must get to sleep soon or you’ll be fit for nothing 
to-morrow,” she replied. 

She kissed her, and was just going toward the door when 
Vicky called her back: 

“Briggy dear, if Dad should take it into his head to follow 
me, you wouldn’t let him come up here, would you?” 

“No—no—of course not, dear,” murmured Miss Brigstocke 
mendaciously but soothingly. For she was perfectly aware 
of her own inability to keep an irate Lord Pendre from his 
daughter’s room should he elect to descend upon them on the 
morrow. The prospect was almost as unwelcome to her as it 
was to Vicky. 

She went out of the room, closing the door softly behind 
her. She really hadn’t quite liked the look of Vicky to-night— 
she had such queer flushed cheeks, such an unnatural bright¬ 
ness in her eyes. It even struck her for the first time that the 
girl might be going to be ill. That would certainly add a 
perfectly incredible complication to an already sufficiently 
difficult situation. 

This thought, combined with the fear of a possible intru¬ 
sion from Lord Pendre in his wrath, disturbed the good lady 
so much that she passed an unusually restless night. And in 
her dreams she was continually holding the door against Lord 
Pendre, while Martin Sedgwick was assisting Vicky to escape 
from the window. 

4 

Vicky had no inclination to get up when the following 
morning came. She was only too thankful to remain in bed, 
with the cool sea wind blowing softly into her room, and the 
sound of the crisp breaking of the waves falling agreeably 
upon her ears. 

She didn’t want any breakfast. Miss Brigstocke and 
Hannah both tried to coax her into taking some coffee and 
toast, but she shook her head. 


FLIGHT 


32 7 


“Fm not really a bit hungry.” 

“There’s really nothing wrong, Hannah,” Miss Brigstocke 
told her faithful servant a little later when she was having 
her own breakfast in the sitting-room downstairs. “Just a 
little over-tired, you know, and she’s been having rather a bad 
time lately.” 

Hannah was reluctant to give her opinion in opposition to 
such recognized authority, still she could not refrain from 
shaking her head and saying: 

“Can’t say as how I liked the look of her myself, miss. ’ 

“Oh, she’s only a little flushed. It’s a very hot day. I shall 
be glad when August’s over.” 

“Yes, miss,” assented Hannah unconvinced. 

To her the whole affair was highly mysterious. There had 
been a telegram on the Saturday morning to ask if it would 
be convenient to Miss Brigstocke to receive Miss Wingrave, 
and before tea-time she was already there. And now to be 
taken ill. . . . Hannah was not easily deceived, despite her 
apparent agreement that the August heat had had something 
to do with those flushed cheeks. She had “buried” most 
of her own relations, and knew illness when she saw it. 

“If it ’ud been me I’d have sent for the doctor,” muttered 
the old woman, as she proceeded to the kitchen to consume 
innumerable cups of tea, and a succulent “kipper.” “Not that 
I believe in them doctors. All talk and nothing doing. I’d 
rather go to a chemist myself, and get a good bottle of stuff, 
and have something to show for it.” 

Miss Brigstocke remained at home with Vicky that morn¬ 
ing. She sat in her bedroom sewing, still trying to convince 
herself that the girl’s indisposition was nothing at all—the 
mere passing result of all the excitement and emotion she had 
lately experienced. But toward noon a change set in, Vicky 
became alarmingly talkative, Miss Brigstocke took her tem¬ 
perature, and found that it was very high. 

She began to feel really uneasy, and wished that she had 
not dismissed Hannah’s attempted “croaking in contemptuous 
silence that morning. It was highly unpleasant to own one¬ 
self in the wrong, still it had to be done. 


328 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

She went down to the sitting-room and rang the bell for 
Hannah. 

“Hannah,” she said, as that functionary appeared. 

“Yes, miss?” 

“I don’t think Miss Wingrave’s very well.” 

“No, miss?” 

“She’s a running a temperature, and she’s talking to herself 
in rather an odd way.” 

“I’m not at all surprised to hear it, miss,” said Hannah, with 
exasperating meekness. 

“Just come up and listen.” 

They went very softly up the little flight of stairs, and stood 
on the landing. The door of Vicky’s room was closed, but 
they could hear the shrill sustained monologue within. 

“She’s delirious, miss, that’s what she is. My pore sister—” 

Miss Brigstocke interrupted her mercilessly. 

“I really think you’d better run round and tell Dr. White to 
come.” 

“Very well, miss. But I wouldn’t leave her if I was you. 
They’ll sometimes try and throw themselves out of the window 
when they’re like this. I remember my pore brother-in-law— 
him as married my sister down Shoreham way—” 

“I think you’d better put on your things at once. It doesn’t 
matter if lunch is a little late—” 

Miss Brigstocke’s voice was urgent and authoritative. She 
knew by heart the episodes that marked the closing days of all 
Hannah’s defunct relations; it was a depressing recital even 
when she wasn’t, as now, extremely anxious. 

She went back into the room; the movement roused Vicky. 

“Briggy dear, I feel rather queer. I think I’ve been talk¬ 
ing,” she murmured, moving her head restlessly. “Do you 
think I’m ill?” 

“I don’t think you’re very well. I’ve sent Hannah round to 
tell Doctor White to come.” 

“And Mummie—and Martin,” murmured Vicky. 

She relapsed into silence, and soon fell into an uneasy rest¬ 
less slumber, during which Miss Brigstocke sat by the bedside 


FLIGHT 


329 


and waited, devoutly hoping that her “medical man” as she 
always called him, would soon come to the rescue. 

Fortunately he happened to be at home when Hannah ar¬ 
rived, breathless and palpitating, upon the scene. August was 
seldom a busy month with him, many of his usual patients 
being away. He put on a hat, went out into the street, leapt 
on to a bus, and was soon well on his way to Miss Brigstocke s 
house. Hannah’s appearance had impressed him with a sense 
of urgency even • before she informed him that the “Honor¬ 
able Miss Wingrave” had been “took ill” at Miss Brigstocke’s. 

He was slightly astonished when he entered the sick-room, 
to see what was presumably a child lying on the bed. Vicky 
didn’t look more than fifteen, with her short hair tumbled 
about her face. 

Flushed, feverish, inclined to mutter—he saw at a glance 
that even if the case wasn’t serious now, it might speedily be¬ 
come so. He noticed the bright pink patches on the ashen 
cheeks, the wild beautiful eyes. 

“What’s the meaning of this, Miss Brigstocke? Came down 
on Saturday, did she? Then whatever it is she must have 
brought it with her, if that is any consolation to you!” 

Miss Brigstocke had as^little terror of illness as any married 
woman with a large family. She had helped to bring many a 
child triumphantly through such infantile disorders as chicken- 
pox, measles, scarlet fever and mumps. She was a competent 
nurse, assiduous and attentive. But there was something 
about this sickness of Vicky’s in its sudden violence that did 
frighten her. She seemed to have passed in a few hours from 
comparative health to terrible and alarming illness. 

When he had finished his examination she accompanied him 
to the door. 

“Don’t let her see anyone. Keep her as quiet as possible. 
She must not be in any way excited. I should say she was 
run down beforehand—why, she’s nothing but skin and bone!” 
He looked inquiringly at Miss Brigstocke, as if hoping that 
she might throw some light on the subject. 

“She’s had a good deal of worry,” she admitted cautiously. 

“Worry? A child like that? She hardly looks fifteen.” 


330 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“She’s eighteen, and she wants to marry one man while her 
people have been trying to get her to marry another.” 

“She looks too much of a baby to get married at all,” he 
remarked, slightly astonished that Vicky should already have 
had to cope with difficult problems. “Well, I’ll call in later 
and see how she is.” 

“Shall I send for her mother ? She’s in London.” 

“Well, it might be advisable. But impress upon her people 
she’s not to talk.” 

He gave a few instructions and then departed. He had 
hardly gone when there was a tremendous peal at the bell, 
followed by a loud knocking at the door. Miss Brigstocke 
turned pale and trembled. She knew that it must be Lord 
Pendre, and was fearful lest those ominous sounds, so signifi¬ 
cant of her parent’s approach, should reach Vicky’s ears. 


CHAPTER XVII 


Two Ceremonies 

1 

M ISS BRIGSTOCKE waited on the threshold of the 
sitting-room to greet Lord Pendre as he entered the 

house. 

With her grey hair naturally wavy and neatly parted above 
her brow, her kindly grey eyes and fresh color, she was still 
even at sixty a pleasant wholesome-faced woman. And just 
now there was a certain dignity about her. She had never 
felt so little afraid of him, so conscious that she herself was 
in the right and he very much in the wrong. 

Yet he was in a fierce dangerous mood. The eyebrows met 
across his face in a broad black line. He looked more than 
ever immense, massive, formidable, full of physical power. 
A super-man. A man who had made success and wealth his 
twin gods. 

“Where’s Vicky? Fetch her at once!” he stormed. 

“Will you come in, please, Lord Pendre? I have something 
to say to you.” 

Her tone was very quiet, but it held authority. He followed 
her into the sitting-room. She closed the door and motioned 
him to a seat. 

He shook his head. He preferred to stand there, facing her. 
It was an exhibition of crass ingratitude on her part that she 
should befriend his daughter, offering her an asylum in her 
rebellious flight, even while she was the recipient of his 
bounty. 

When he had dismissed her from Pendre it had been with 
an inward resolve that she should never see Vicky again. Her 
influence over the girl was too strong, and it had not always 

331 


332 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


been wisely used. She had shielded her. The thought 
maddened him. She had held out welcoming arms to the girl 
when she ought in honor to have declined to receive her. 
Wasn’t she living on his bounty? Hadn’t he pensioned her 
off very handsomely? 

“Vicky is here, but you can’t see her.” 

“I’m going to see her! You can’t keep her from me. I 
shall send for the police! I’ve come to take her home. You 
haven’t the smallest right to keep her.” His voice rang in 
angry crescendo. “Do you suppose I am going to stand any 
more of this d-d nonsense?” 

“Well, then, you can’t see her. And it’s no use your 
threatening me with the police. Vicky’s ill. She’s very ill, 
and the doctor says no one must go near her.” 

“Ill? Nonsense! She’s shamming*—malingering! I'm 
going to her at once. I shall take her back with me to Lon¬ 
don.” He consulted his watch. “The train leaves in an hour. 
She must be ready.” 

He made a sharp movement toward the door. But Miss 
Brigstocke intercepted him. 

“No, Lord Pendre, I’m very sorry, but you mustn’t go near 
her. If you do I can’t answer for the consequences. Don’t 
you understand ? The sight of you would upset her very much 
indeed. She’s feverish—even delirious—at times. The doctor 
has only just gone, but if you don’t believe me, I’ll send for 
him to come back. He’ll tell you more than I can. He’ll tell 
you just how ill she is.” 

Her quiet tone carried conviction. He sank into a chair, re¬ 
maining there for some minutes, immersed in thought. 

What fresh scheme was he plotting for the subjugation of 
this child of his? The man was wholly unaccustomed to de¬ 
feat ; he writhed beneath the smart of it. On every hand there 
seemed to be people ready and willing to interpose between 
him and his own daughter—just as if he had no right to 
dictate to her. 

Wait till he got her back to Pendre! She would soon 
learn who was master then. He would subdue this wilful, 
mutinous, elusive spirit. He sprang suddenly to his feet. Of 



TWO CEREMONIES 


333 


course it was a plot to keep him from her. What a fool he 
had been to believe, even for a moment, this legend of her 
illness! . . . 

“This is a plot to prevent my seeing her. You’re a wonder¬ 
ful actress—for the moment you completely took me in! 

. . . But you can’t deceive me. You’ve always behaved 
like a fool with Vicky, letting her twist you round her little 
finger. But you shan’t take me in. I insist upon seeing her 
at once.” 

“Very well. You shall see for yourself. I’ll let you look 
into the room. But you mustn’t let her see you, on any 
account” 

“You’re talking as if I were a monster! I’m Vicky’s 
father, and I’m doing what I know to be best for her.” 

“Best for her?” she echoed. “You ought to have heard 
what the doctor said about her just now. Run down before 
this illness seized her—nothing but flesh and bone! I’m not 
surprised she’s ill after all she’s gone through since I left 
Pendre last spring.” Her grey eyes flashed. 

“Gone through? What do you mean by ‘gone through’?” 
He emphasized the words ironically. 

She looked at him with stern grey eyes. Never before had 
she so ardently desired to explain to anyone the error of their 
ways. 

“Haven’t you done your best to force her into a marriage 
with a man more than twice her age? Haven’t you tried— 
aren’t you still trying—to prevent her from marrying Martin 
Sedgwick, the man she really loves ? You’ve been deceiving 
yourself, Lord Pendre. But you shan’t hurt her any more, 
poor darling baby!” 

She led the way up the short flight of stairs, and opened the 
door softly. The silence and hush impressed Lord Pendre 
against his will; he began to think that, after all, Vicky 
wasn’t perhaps very well, only they were exaggerating her 
symptoms in order to prevent him from carrying her back to 
London. However, he wasn’t going to have anything of that 
sort. Vicky would certainly submit directly she saw him. She 
would know that the game was up! . . . 


334 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


The blinds were drawn down, and the room into which Lord 
Pendre could see but dimly was filled with a kind of green 
twilight. Miss Brigstocke went in ahead of him, and raised 
her hand with a gesture that forbade him to enter. Unwill¬ 
ingly he obeyed. But he put his head round the open door 
and looked into the room. 

Vicky was lying there with closed eyes. She looked a frail, 
childish figure, and as if all the strength had gone out of her. 
Her tiny face was just visible beneath the dark damp mass of 
hair. 

Suddenly she opened her eyes, and gazed beyond Miss 
Brigstocke toward the door. Her features stiffened with fear 
—her eyes were wide and wild with terror as if she were be¬ 
holding some gruesome specter. That face thrust round the 
door—with its fierce black frowning brows, its black eyes and 
hair and beard! She gave a piercing scream that rang through 
the house, and brought Hannah stumbling up the stairs as 
fast as her aged feet could carry her. 

“The shadow .... the shadow on the house. . . cried 
Vicky wildly. 

She sank back on the pillow and closed her eyes. The 
specter had vanished. Only her darling old Briggy was bend¬ 
ing over her, murmuring soothing tender words. . . . 

“Hannah—go back and beg Doctor White to come here. 
He must see his lordship and explain to him—” 

Hannah stumbled away. She followed Lord Pendre down 
the stairs. He walked slowly, heavily, almost like an old man, 
and as if his feet had been shod with lead. 

The scream echoed in his ears. He could see the ashen 
face, the dark eyes wide and wild with terror. 

And he believed that Vicky was dying, and that he had 
killed her. 

2 

There followed days of sharpest anxiety for all those who 
loved Vicky Wingrave. Hope and fear fluctuated in those 
loyal hearts. 

Eustace brought his mother down to Hove in response to 


TWO CEREMONIES 


335 


Miss Brigstocke’s urgent telegram. Lady Pendre could not 
bear the idea of sending her daughter to a nursing home 
where she would not always be able to obtain access to her. 
Eustace therefore went to the house-agent’s, and rented a 
furnished house, into which they all moved. A great physician 
was summoned from London, but he could only confirm 
Doctor White’s diagnosis, that Vicky was suffering from 
typhoid fever. From the first it was a grave question whether 
her strength could possibly hold out. 

Martin came down on Sundays. He was not at first allowed 
to see Vicky, and he avoided meeting Lord Pendre, who did 
not even know of his presence. Eustace always took him for 
a long walk, and told him all that he could of Vicky’s illness. 
Martin was very busy now at the War Office; he could not 
get away during the week. 

Lady Pendre and Eustace were constantly with Vicky; she 
never, in her intervals of consciousness, seemed quite at ease 
if neither of them was in the room. But Lord Pendre never 
even asked to be admitted. He would not risk a repetition of 
his former dreadful experience. 

He clung rather pitifully to his wife in those days, as if 
only in her presence could he gain comfort. Whether he 
reproached himself or suffered even from the elements of 
remorse, none ever knew. He avoided Eustace, as if he could 
not meet those stern accusing eyes. He believed that Eustace 
blamed him for Vicky’s illness. It was unjust of course. 
Typhoid depended upon a germ, and Vicky must have picked 
up such a germ. But he did not reflect that the girl was in 
no condition to resist the onslaught of any malady that might 
assail her. She was worn out with grief and suspense. The 
germ had fallen upon ripe soil. . . . 

Behind all his thoughts there was one great fear. How 
would his wife emerge from this ordeal? Would it change 
her—even in her relation to himself? If she were called 
upon to taste for the second time a tragic grief would she 
regard it as a castigation—a punishment? Would she come to 
him again and say: “It was I who killed her”? 


336 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


She was so much in her daughter’s room that he saw but 
little of her, except in the evening. And then when she was 
with him her silence, her self-control, her repression, terrified 
him. He felt that she was slipping away. Would she in the 
end conquer him? Those twenty-seven years during which 
he had kept her close to him by sheer force of his love, of his 
overwhelming personality, would perhaps count for nothing if 
Vicky died. In the inevitable reaction she would return to the 
old influences, more powerful than all his strength, than all 
his love. . . . 

Sometimes he found it impossible to remain there. The 
autumn days were very wild and wet; the sea thundered on 
the beach, not a hundred yards away, with a savage monoto¬ 
nous sound that got on his nerves. If only they were all back 
at Pendre! He believed that, whatever happened, he should 
feel less acutely miserable there than in this great hired house 
on the Brighton sea-front. 

The crisis was approaching. For the next few days any 
change was unlikely. Vicky was very quiet now; she seldom 
spoke to anyone. She seemed to be growing weaker, just as if 
life were ebbing stealthily away. 

It was a Saturday evening when Lord Pendre decided to 
return to London. He could not bear the suspense; the atmos¬ 
phere of anxiety was insupportable. He would return on 
Monday, he told his wife, and if there was any change they 
must send for him. It seemed a relief to them all when he 
drove away to the station. 

That evening when Lady Pendre and Eustace were sitting 
alone after dinner, Martin was announced. 

“I managed to get off this afternoon,” he said, “and I felt 
I must come.” His face was haggard. 

“She’s very weak to-night, but no worse,” said Lady Pendre. 

Always, she seemed to hold her great fear at arm’s length. 
It must never be allowed to come quite near. If it touched 
her she would be swallowed up in the shadow of it. 

Eustace left them alone together. He lit a cigarette and 
went for a walk along the Hove front. The evening was 
windy and wet, the long grey promenade was deserted. The 


TWO CEREMONIES 


33 7 


lawns were wet and sodden with rain. All along the pavement 
the sea had flung up sand and shingle and even big pebbles. 
The tide had run very high that day. The hard surging sound 
beat in his ears and upon his brain. Over there, in that tall 
house that faced the sea, Vicky was fighting her grim con¬ 
flict for life itself. He seemed to see her lying there, white 
and small and growing weaker. . . . 

“Lady Pendre. . . 

“Yes, Martin ?” 

“Can’t we be married, Vicky and I? I’d rather think she 
was my wife.” 

His eyes were bright, hard and tearless. She thought: 

“He believes then that she’s going to die.” 

Her throat seemed to close up. 

“If you see her to-morrow you can ask her. My husband 
won’t be back till Monday—unless we send for him.” 

“I’d get a special license. The priest would marry us. I’ve 
talked it over with Father Dering.” 

He sat there, his arms folded. 

Whenever he came down now, he was allowed to see Vicky 
for a few minutes. He said very little, but just sat there, 
holding her little claw-like hand. Sometimes she would 
recognize him and utter his name in a faint whisper. But 
every time he saw her, he felt that she was a little further 
away ... the distance between them was increasing . . . 
her smile was so remote. 

“I should like you to marry her now,” said Lady Pendre. 

When she was his wife Martin could give Vicky things 
that she herself might not. It was for this reason that he 
wished to marry her perhaps, even though in all probability 
she would never be his wife except in name. It was because 
he didn’t want her to die without the Last Sacraments, un¬ 
shriven. 

“You can do so many things for her,” she suggested, as he 
did not speak. 

“Yes,” he assented dully. 

Outside, they could hear the screaming wind scourging 
the sea; the thunder of the waves. 


338 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“To-morrow, then. I’ll ask her to-morrow.” 

He went away. When he had gone, Lady Pendre continued 
to sit there, waiting for Eustace’ return. Always, she had 
hoped that Martin might evolve some plan of the kind. Now 
she realized that he had spoken because he believed that 
Vicky couldn’t live. And he wanted to help her to die. She 
stirred restlessly. She wished that Eustace would come 
in. . . . 

Presently she heard his step on the stair; he entered the 
room, his face chilled and reddened from contact with that 
shrill high wind. 

“I met Martin. He told me,” he said. 

She looked at him. She thought he had been crying. But 
perhaps it was only the keen air outside that had so reddened 
his eyes. 

“Shall you mind?” he said. “It’ll take her a little away 
from us, won’t it?” 

“I shan’t mind. He can do so much for her.” 

“You’ll let him?” 

“Yes.” She set her mouth firmly. He longed for her to 
speak. She knew perhaps just what would happen. He felt 
a kind of envy. 

“Mother!” 

“Yes, dear?” 

“Why didn’t you teach her when she was well?” 

Again that accusing reproachful look. 

“I couldn’t teach her.” The words dropped from her lips, 
almost as if she hardly had the strength to utter them. 

He went out of the room. Perhaps Father Dering would 
come on the morrow and receive Vicky into the Church. She 
was always a little brighter in the morning; she knew people 
then, sometimes she would even say a few words. He felt 
envious of Martin because he was going to bring this great 
joy into her life. 

As he passed up the stairs, he saw a light under Vicky’s 
door. He knocked softly and one of the nurses came to 
open it. 

“May I come in?” he said. 


TWO CEREMONIES 


339 


“Just for a moment. She’s not asleep yet.” 

He went up to the bedside. Vicky was lying there, looking 
like some frail woodland flower over which a heavy storm 
had broken. 

“Eustie. . . .” 

“Yes, darling.” 

“Don’t go away, Eustie.” 

He sat down by her side, laying his hand upon hers. For 
many hours, long after she had sunk into slumber, he remained 
thus, not daring to move for fear of disturbing her. 

4 

“Vicky, darling.” 

“Yes, Martin?” 

Her somber eyes met his with a faint gleam of recognition. 

“Would you let our marriage take place now?” 

“Now?” 

“To-morrow. The priest would come here and marry us. I 
want you to be my wife, Vicky—to feel you belong to me.” 

“I should be safe then ?” 

“Quite safe.” 

“I mean—they couldn’t separate us, no matter how hard 
they tried ? I should belong to you ?” 

“Forever .... Vicky darling. No one could separate us 
except God.” 

“Martin. . . .” 

“Yes, darling?” 

“Couldn’t I be a Catholic first ?” 

“Oh, my dear, this very day if you wish it!” 

“Then to-day. Tell Mummie and Eustie.” 

Presently he left her and went in search of Lady Pendre. 
He found her with her son in the drawing-room. He and 
Eustace had both been to an early Mass together that morning. 
The weather had cleared. There were bars of sunlight il¬ 
luminating the stormy darkness of the sea. 

“I’ve spoken to Vicky,” he said, advancing into the room. 


340 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

“She wishes to be received first. Should you have any objec¬ 
tion ?” 

His blue eyes met Lady Pendre’s in a straight square glance. 

“You must do as you think best.” 

She sat down near the window gazing out on to the sea. 
She looked, he thought, like some figure of destiny, immovable 
in her calm, her detachment. Watching. . . . Neither helping 
nor hindering. Thinking her own secret thoughts, like some 
unsmiling sphinx. 

“I thought it might be to-day. And then if it can be ar¬ 
ranged we could be married to-morrow morning.” 

So he had taken the law into his own hands. Whether 
Vicky lived or died she belonged to him. And his love, deep 
and ardent, was to be the human instrument that should bring 
to her these transcendent gifts. Love that had “robbed” her 
own life of “immortal things” had brought them to Vicky. 

Vicky seemed a little better that day, and if anything a trifle 
stronger, but Martin saw in this no excuse for delay. He 
went round to see Father Dering, who promised to come at 
ten o’clock. 

Lady Pendre received him in the drawing-room. She had 
not spoken to a priest since her marriage. He was an elderly 
man, tall, stooping slightly, with grey hair and very kind, 
wise eyes. 

Some priests, as she knew, had a curious faculty for pene¬ 
trating into the souls of those with whom they were brought 
into contact. There were strange stories of priests in the 
confessional being able to remind their penitents of some sin 
they had forgotten or omitted to confess. She had a nervous 
fear lest those kind, wise, visionary eyes should discover her 
own secret. 

“My daughter is very ill,” she said, in a low hurried voice, 
and speaking with some emotion. You’ll make it as short as 
possible, won’t you?” 

“Certainly. There is a very short and simple profession of 
faith which suffices in the case of a sick person. May I go up 
to her now? I shall hear her confession first, and then you 
can come for the conditional baptism.” 


TWO CEREMONIES 341 

He glanced at the three faces. Martin was the first to 
answer. 

“We shall be on the landing—-you can tell us when you’re 
ready Father.” 

“I would rather not be there,” said Lady Pendre. 

Her face was ashen white, and so were her lips. She 
seemed to be struggling with an emotion she could not sup¬ 
press. She watched them as they went out of the room. 

She sat there, waiting. Vicky, making her first stumbling 
confession. Always perhaps more difficult for a convert than 
for one who had approached that Sacrament as a little child, 
taught and trained. The brief profession of faith. . . . The 
conditional baptism. . . . The simple things that had such 
enduring results. . . . Admission. . . . Knock , and it shall 
be opened unto you. . . . 

Vicky—the child of an apostate—was to be received into the 
Church of her own will on what might prove to be her death¬ 
bed. She would not die, as Phip had died, outside, never 
knowing the consolation to which he had had so great a right. 
She would taste the full sweetness of those Sacraments. 
When Lady Pendre thought of Vicky now, her heart seemed 
to stir with a strange thankfulness. 

She sank upon her knees and prayed. . . . 

There were footsteps on the stairs and she rose from her 
knees and went to the door. Father Dering came toward her, 
followed by Eustace. 

“I don’t think you’ll find her any the worse, Lady Pendre. 
and she’s quite wonderfully happy,” said the priest. 

“I am sure she is. I think she’s been wishing for this for 
some time past.” 

“I must thank you,” he said, “for making no difficulties. 
May Almighty God reward you!” He paused and then added: 
“Of course if she gets worse I can come at any time to give 
her the Holy Viaticum, the Last Sacraments. But unless 
there’s any change I shall bring her Holy Communion to¬ 
morrow morning.” 

Lady Pendre gave a little start. She thought of that scene 
in Brussels so many, many years ago. She saw herself, a 
child, younger than Vicky by several years, waiting for the 


342 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


priest to come. The little altar, the crucifix, the flowers, the 
lights . . . and then the gleam of the silver Pyx. 

A strong shiver shook her from head to foot. 

“That will be very kind of you/’ she said mechanically, in 
an odd withdrawn tone. 

And again she had that curious fear that he could look 
into her soul and see it all darkened and stained and impure 
with the sin of apostasy. And she remembered that as a child 
she had been taught that a soul in mortal sin would be more 
horrible to look upon if it were visible than a body decomposed 
by death. It was a dead soul that could not know the Grace 
of God. And all its works were dead. . . . 

Vicky’s soul was beautiful now; it was in a state of grace. 
It was far, far more beautiful than her frail little wasted 
body. God’s Hand had touched it in Baptism. . . . 

She gave a low sob and turned abruptly away. 

5 

That night Lady Pendre went up stairs, carrying a little 
tray. Mechanically she began to put everything in readiness 
for the morrow. She could visualize in every detail the little 
altar with its lights and flowers that had made a spot of 
strangely shining light in that room at the top of an old high 
house in Brussels. 

It had to be done, and no one knew so well how to do it as 
she. All the time she was silently at work she was humbled 
by the sense of her own unworthiness to prepare for anything 
so holy. It seemed to her that her very fingers must soil the 
whiteness of the linen cloth as she spread it over the table, 
and tarnish the silver vases with their white blossoms. 

There was no crucifix. She had not possessed such a thing 
since her marriage. She had never willingly looked upon one 
until that evening at Pendre when Eustace had suddenly 
shown her the one he wore and told her it had been indul- 
genced for the hour of death. Something had constrained 
her then to stoop and kiss the Feet. Did he ever think of that 
episode and wonder what it meant? Surely it must have 


TWO CEREMONIES 343 

startled and astonished him. But she had often thought that 
Eustace suspected something of the truth. . . . 

The little table was in the dressing-room that adjoined 
Vicky’s room, so that her preparations did not disturb the 
invalid. To-morrow morning when the priest came it could 
easily be moved into the bedroom. She had just finished her 
task when Martin came in. They often sat in the dressing- 
room so as to be near at hand, and yet not disturb Vicky 
with their presence. 

“There’s everything but the crucifix and holy water,” she 
said. “I’ve put this little silver bowl for the holy water. 
Perhaps the priest will bring some.” 

“I’ve got a crucifix at my lodgings,” said Martin, “and I’ll 
bring the holy water when I come back from Mass in the 
morning.” 

“Oh, you’re not going back to London to-night?” 

“No. I’ve got leave for a few days. You see, I felt I 
might be wanted here.” 

His young face had a grim hard look. Never once had he 
shown any sign of breaking down. He was rigidly self-corn 
trolled, although he believed, as she knew, that Vicky could 
' not live. 

They sat there waiting. No sound came from the sick¬ 
room. From time to time Martin bestowed upon Lady Pendre 
a quick searching glance. She had prepared everything in 
readiness for the morning—this woman who had scarcely al¬ 
lowed her children to mention religion to her. She had known 
exactly what was wanted, what was necessary. She knew 
that Our Blessed Lord was coming to Vicky on the morrow. 
She had made ready for that Coming with a Martha-like as¬ 
siduity. There was a strange, almost stern, purpose about 
her. 

Never before, he thought, had he ever felt such a deep 
measure of anxiety for any human soul. He was almost cer¬ 
tain that she was astray in the wilderness. He longed to 
speak to her. But her coldness repelled him. 

Was this the price she had paid for all the wealth and ease 
and luxury of her life? And how far had these things, so 


344 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


dearly bought, satisfied her? For was it not her perfidy, her 
betrayal, that had caused the shadow on the house from which, 
one by one, her children were making their escape ? . . . 

“You’ll be there to-morrow morning?” he hazarded. 
“Vicky would like it, you know.” 

She shook her head. 

“I can’t—I can’t—I’m sorry, Martin. ...” 

She rose quickly and went out of the room. 

Father Dering had said he would come early, and Lady 
Pendre rose at seven and waited for his arrival in the dining¬ 
room, which led out of the hall. She left the door ajar, and 
every now and then she rose and looked out of the window 
to see if he was within sight. 

On the table near her there were two tall candlesticks, each 
holding a lighted taper. 

Presently Eustace looked in. 

“Oh, you’re there, Mother ?” 

“Yes. Will you take this candle? Hold it when you open 
the door.” She gave him these brief instructions in a me¬ 
chanical tone. 

“But why shouldn’t you? We could both go.” He looked 
at her wistfully. Why should she stand aside in this way, and 
leave everything to Martin and himself? Was it from some 
mistaken sense of loyalty to her husband? 

“No—no—it’s better you should do it. You—and Martin 
if he’s here in time.” 

“There’s Martin!” said Eustace, as that tall upright figure 
passed the window, walking at a swinging pace. He ran and 
opened the front door. 

“Oh, there you are, Martin! Mother’s put these candles 
ready for us.” 

Martin followed him into the dining-room. 

“Good-morning, Lady Pendre. I’ve brought the crucifix 
and holy water.” 

“Would you take them up ?” she asked, hesitatingly. 

“Yes.” 

He ran out of the room and up the three flights of stairs 


TWO CEREMONIES 


345 


that led to the big front room where Vicky lay. He went 
softly into the dressing-room and placed the crucifix upon the 
table, and poured some holy water into the little silver bowl. 
Everything was in readiness. He gave the nurse instructions 
to light the candles directly she heard the procession coming 
up the stairs. 

“How is she to-day ?” he asked. 

“She’s had a very quiet night, and she seems peaceful and 
happy.” 

Eustace and Martin received Father Dering, holding the 
lighted candles in their hands and genuflecting as he entered 
the house. The door into the dining-room was still open and 
they became conscious that Lady Pendre was standing there 
watching them. But in the moment that Father Dering 
passed, she fell upon her knees, crossed herself, and remained 
kneeling with bowed head. 

She knelt there as one whom grief and remorse have turned 
to stone, still and motionless, with a white frozen face. She 
heard them pass and go up the stairs. She heard the priest’s 
voice reciting Latin words. It seemed to her that no punish¬ 
ment could be more terrible than her enforced inevitable 
separation from Vicky now. She longed to be with her. 
Vicky would perhaps notice her absence, and wonder at the 
cause of it. 

After twenty-seven years of apostasy and denial she had 
found herself once more in the Divine Presence. She re¬ 
membered those words, “And the Lord turning looked on 
Peter /'—they cut her to the heart. Yet how could she repent 
and return? She was, indeed, as Martin had guessed, astray 
in the wilderness. 


6 

Later in the morning there was a very simple brief little 
ceremony in Vicky’s room. Lady Pendre had dressed her 
daughter in a white silk wrap and put a veil of white lace on 
her head. Eustace was present, and the two nurses. The 
doctor had utterly disapproved, declaring that his patient had 


346 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


already had far too much excitement, and that her heart 
wouldn’t stand it. He refused to answer for the consequences. 

When it was over and Lady Pendre and her son had left 
the room with Father Dering, Martin found himself alone 
with his little bride. She was very tranquil and smiling, and 
as he approached the bedside she held out her hand with the 
gold wedding ring on the third finger. 

“Martin!” 

He knelt there, kissing her hand. 

“I am yours now, Martin,” she said 

“Yes, my precious one.” 

“I shan’t mind dying now. You’ve brought me such good 
gifts. . , 

“Oh, don’t talk of dying, Vicky darling. You’re to get well 
and strong ... we shall be so happy.” 

“We’ve had this happiness,” she murmured. 

“Yes, yes.” 

“You must help Eustie. I think he’s on the way.” 

“I know he is, Vicky.” 

“How I wish Mummie could come too. ...” 

He was silent. In his mind he seemed to see her kneeling 
there in the doorway, her face turned to stone. 

“We must pray for her,” he said at last. 

“Martin. . . .” 

“Yes, my own?” 

“The shadow seems to have gone. I see such a wonderful 
light.” 

She leaned back and closed her eyes. 

It was the worst day of all—the day when hope was at its 
lowest ebb. Vicky was very quiet and peaceful; the fever had 
left her, but she was completely exhausted, and her pulse was 
barely perceptible. 

They sat for the most part in the dressing-room so as not 
to disturb her, and every now and then Martin would rise and 
go into her room and kneel by the bedside praying. He could 
not tell if she realized that he was there; she made no sign. 


TWO CEREMONIES 347 

Since that brief conversation just after their marriage, she 
had hardly said a word to anyone. But he thought that, what¬ 
ever happened, he should always remember those last words 
she had spoken to him: “The shadow seems to have gone 
... I see such a wonderful light. . . J* 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Anxiety 


1 

A S LORD PENDRE did not return that day, a respite for 
which Martin at any rate was devoutly thankful, his wife 
sent him a telegram early on the Tuesday morning, telling him 
that he had better come and bring Barbara with him, as Vicky 
was decidedly weaker. 

A few hours brought them to the house on the Brighton 
front. As Lord Pendre drove up to the great cream stucco 
dwelling that had stood there since the days—such palmy ones 
for Brighton—of the Regency, he half-in voluntarily glanced 
up at the windows. Windows had their own sure tale to tell 
when there was tragedy within. But the house presented a 
perfectly normal aspect; only the blind in the sick-room was 
drawn down. 

September was nearing its end, and the day was very calm, 
with a light haze over the sea. Some fishing-boats with 
heavy red sails were anchored just beyond the West Pier, and 
their reflections were accurately delineated in the glassy water. 
Westward the long low shore dipping to Worthing was deli¬ 
cately drawn in grey and chalk-white, almost like a sketch in 
silver-point. 

The father and daughter mounted the stairs. Lord Pendre 
looked for the first time a trifle aged. Always he had the fear 
that his wife or Eustace might reproach him for his harsh 
treatment of Vicky. He had only tried to mould her, to break 
her in, as one might a young and restive colt, and under the 
strain of this discipline she had fallen sick—sick unto death. 

348 


ANXIETY 


349 


He had broken her heart, not her spirit; her brave young 
spirit still eluded him, and now perhaps would elude him 
forever. 

He was thankful for Barbara’s company and support; she 
had always approved of him, upheld his authority; she was 
the only one except darling Phip, who had inherited his own 
clear intelligence and horse-sense, and saw things exactly as 
they were. 

A great hush prevailed in the house, which was full of that 
tense, expectant atmosphere inseparable from any place where 
there is severe and critical illness. 

As they entered the drawing-room Lady Pendre detached 
herself from a little group of people who were standing near 
the window, and advanced toward them. Almost immediately 
Eustace followed her; the third figure, a young man, seemed 
to hang back for a moment as if uncertain what step he should 
take. But Lady Pendre indicated him, saying: 

“You remember Major Sedgwick, Hugo?” 

Martin came forward and bowed to Lord Pendre and Bar¬ 
bara. Of course he knew that his presence was less than wel¬ 
come, but he had a right to be near Vicky now, and he felt 
that he would allow no insult to accelerate his departure. 

Lord Pendre frowned slightly; he made no comment. But 
the next moment he turned to his wife and said: 

“How is she?” 

“She’s asleep ... she had a very bad night, and she seems 
weaker.” 

“I shall see her presently ?” 

“Yes, presently. Hugo—come into my room, won’t you? 
I’ve something to say to you.” 

He followed her out of the room and into a small sitting- 
room across the landing. It was at the back of the house and 
looked over a tiny square patch of garden. Just a strip of 
lawn with a sun-dial in the middle; a few bushes of 
euonymus. . . . 

Above the garden and the roofs of the houses that reared 
themselves beyond it, there was a strip of very pale blue sky, 
unbroken by cloud. 


350 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“Why’s that fellow here ?” demanded Lord Pendre, angrily. 

“He’s every right to be here, Hugo. You mustn’t mind. 
They . . . they were married yesterday morning.” She made 
the statement very simply, as if relating some quite common¬ 
place event. 

He stared, and then broke into a short unpleasant laugh. 

“Married indeed! That sort of marriage isn’t legal. Who 
on earth married them ?” 

“Father Dering.” 

“Father Dering?” He repeated the words incredulously. 
Then: “One of these High Church men, I suppose?” 

“No—a Catholic priest.” 

“A Catholic priest? You’ve let a Catholic priest come into 
my house, Giselda ?” A cold fear clutched his heart 

“It was Martin’s doing, not mine. He has been a Catholic 
for some months—he arranged it all.” 

“You knew this—when you encouraged the engagement?” 
His temper was rising. 

“I didn’t know until he came that day to Hill Street, with 
Eustace. He told me then he’d been received while he was in 
Malta.” 

“And in spite of this you encouraged it ?” 

“I couldn’t help it. Vicky had been in love with him for 
years. It made no difference to her—even when I explained 
all that it would entail.” 

He was thinking less then of his daughter, of her critical 
illness, than of the effect all this would have upon his wife. 

“It’s just the sort of fool thing a d—d blighter like that 
would do!” he exclaimed, raising his powerful voice so that 
it seemed to ring through the room, disturbing the echoes of 
that hushed and silent house. 

She laid her hand on his arm as if entreating him to be 
quiet. It was an outrage that he should permit his vindictive 
wrath to get the better of him when death was hovering so 
near. How could he let such things anger him now ? Ought 
he not rather to feel thankful that his little daughter should 
have had this last crumb of earthly happiness to assure her of 
Martin’s enduring love ? . . . 


ANXIETY 351 

“Hugo—there is something else. But please—please, don’t 
talk so loud . . . they might hear you upstairs.” 

“What is it?” All the time he was afraid of what she 
might have to tell him. 

“Vicky was received into the Church on Sunday—the day 
before her marriage. She and Martin both wished it. Father 
Dering came to receive her. The child was so happy—so 
peaceful. The first of our children—” 

Her grave eyes looked at him with a sort of dreadful calm¬ 
ness. 

“I told you once, didn’t I, how strongly hereditary Catholi¬ 
cism is ? I knew it was bound to come out sooner or later in 
one or more of them.” 

He caught her hand and held it as if in a vice. 

“Was this your doing? Tell me the truth! You’ve gone 
against me—you’ve broken your promises ?” 

“You’re hurting me, Hugo.” She freed her hand; there 
was a red mark on the wrist—she bruised easily. “No—I had 
nothing whatever to do with it. But Martin had spoken of 
religion to Vicky when they were first engaged—he’s a very 
good Catholic, very much in earnest, like so many of these 
clever thinking young men who were in the War. Naturally 
he wanted Vicky to have this—this grace. But he used no 
pressure—she herself suggested that she should be received 
before they were married. Yesterday morning she had the 
Holy Viaticum—her First Communion. If she gets worse 
Father Dering will administer Extreme Unction.” 

“Never in my house!” 

“She’s Martin’s wife now. He has a right to decide these 
things for her. A greater right than we have. You must let 
him do as he thinks best.” 

“You’ll never get me to believe that this wasn’t a put-up job 
between you and Martin! I know what it is when you Holy 
Romans get together—the plotting and scheming that goes 
on!” 

“You must believe what you choose. Only, Hugo, I wish 
to God that I had had some part in it—that I’d been allowed 


352 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


to help Vicky. But I couldn’t. I had to stand aside and let 
Martin do all that I ought to have done for my own child.” 

He relented then; his old fear came over him. 

'‘Don’t think of it like that, Giselda darling. You chose 
another path . . . other duties.” 

She was silent; she was thinking deeply of that moment 
yesterday morning when Father Dering had entered the house, 
bearing with him the Most Holy. Oh, those words that had 
come to her mind then in all their love, in all their bitterness! 
And the Lord turning looked on Peter . . . Such a look of 
love, of reproach, of entreaty . . . even of pardon. Calling 
her . . . calling her, so that it was difficult not to cast aside 
the love of twenty-seven years and follow Him . . . even to 
martyrdom. For never in all the days of her devout Catholic 
life had she been so passionately aware of the Divine Presence 
as she had been yesterday. It was as if He had passed close 
to her, and she had not even dared to stretch out her hand and 
touch the Hem of that Garment—dyed purple in the wine¬ 
press—and ask for healing and absolution. . . . 

Lord Pendre said in a calmer tone: 

“You ought never to have allowed this priest to come into 
the house. In that way you could have prevented all these 
things from happening!” 

She was silent, knowing that she would not have lifted a 
finger to prevent his coming. 

“Did you see him, yourself?” 

“Twice.” 

“You spoke to him?” 

“Just a few words, each time. Not of course when he came 
in—bringing the Blessed Sacrament.” She looked at him 
with strange eyes. “I just knelt down.” 

“Giselda, my love, don’t, don't think of it!” 

“How can I help thinking of it, when Vicky is dying? I 
can only thank God that if she does die she won’t go un¬ 
absolved, unfortified, like Phip. ...” 

“You’re tired—overwrought—anxious about Vicky. When 
you’re normal again and back at Pendre you’ll forget—” 

“I can never forget.” 


ANXIETY 


353 


He was suggesting impossibilities, and they both knew it. 
Never as long as she lived could she forget that Coming yes¬ 
terday. How she had knelt down in an anguish of remorse 
and contrition, hiding her guilty face. How her heart had 
seemed to cry out: Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst 
come under my roof. . . . The words of the Roman centurion 
commemorated daily all over the world in the Holy Sacrifice 
of the Mass. 

“You must forget. Our life—our very happiness—depends 
upon it.” 

He put his arms about her and kissed her. Her face was 
very cold. They sat there together, in silence, listening. . . . 

Then another idea occurred to him and he exclaimed 
sharply:— 

“I hope Eustace hasn’t seen too much of what’s been going 
on. After that escapade with Miss Tresham in the spring, 
one can never tell what he may be thinking of!” 

“He and Martin are great friends. I think he knows all 
there is to know.” 

“Giselda, you talk sometimes as if you wished your children 
to become Catholics! Wouldn’t that, according to your own 
notions, be like putting a sword into their hands to be used 
against yourself ?” 

“Yes. But I must wish for it, all the same,” she answered 
dully. “Even if it made them hate me—despise me. But it 
could never do that.” Her eyes brightened a little. They 
might blame her, but they would never desert her, never cease 
to hope that some day they might win her back. . . . 

“I should never allow it—you can tell Eustace that! A 
girl’s different—she goes away with her husband—she changes 
her name. But a son, a son who inherits title and property— 
that would be impossible!” 

She did not answer. She was thinking of Eustace standing 
there with the lighted candle in his hand, then kneeling, his 
head bowed, his face aglow with joy. If she had ever doubted 
it before, she had known then that he had the Faith. 

“Has he shown any signs—?” 


354 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“He has said nothing to me lately except to ask me why I 
didn’t teach Vicky about it while she was well.” 

“Then he knows you know— ? He suspects ?” 

“He has suspected for a long time. Ever since he first came 
home from the War, and he felt there was something wrong. 
A shadow on the house . . . that’s what they called it. Di¬ 
rectly the children began to think about religion for them¬ 
selves, they were bound to suspect something.” 

She was right. Since Eustace’ return from the War things 
had never seemed quite the same at Pendre. There had been 
clouds . . . shadows. They had been working up to some 
unknown and invisible crisis. Lord Pendre had felt he had 
lost his old grip of the situation. The children no longer re¬ 
sponded to his stern authority. They questioned, objected, 
secretly rebellious. And now in the midst of this crisis, from 
which he could not tell whether his daughter would emerge 
alive or dead, the Catholic Church had thrust her authority, 
her power, into his house, against him . . . claiming his 
child. . . . 

2 

There was a knock at the door and a nurse appeared on the 
threshold. 

“Could you come up, please, Lady Pendre? She’s asking 
for you.” 

Lady Pendre hurried upstairs, and her husband followed 
her into the dressing-room. She made a little gesture as if to 
entreat him not to come any further. 

Remembering the terrible little scene at Miss Brigstocke’s, 
he obeyed her. He had no wish for a repetition of that—it 
was enough to destroy the strongest nerves. 

Lady Pendre went into the bedroom, closing the door softly 
behind her. She was alone with Vicky. 

“Mummie—Mummie—I want you ...” 

“Yes, darling, I’m here.” 

“But I don’t mean that. I want you with me. Not out¬ 
side. Not in the shadow.” Her face was puzzled, baffled, as 
if she did not quite know how to explain her meaning. 


ANXIETY 


355 


But Lady Pendre grasped it. It pierced her heart. 

“My darling . 

“Mummie, you weren’t always in the shadow. You must 
come back. Our Lord is waiting. I felt yesterday that He 
wanted you. ...” 

Sometimes when death drew near with its great illumina¬ 
tion it was able to bestow a new and unaccountable knowledge 
upon the mind. Lady Pendre felt that this must be the case 
with her daughter now. She was so detached from earth that 
she had a clearer vision, like one who watches distant happen¬ 
ings from afar. And in this way she had been enabled to lift 
the veil a little from her mother’s closely-guarded secret. 

Lady Pendre sank upon her knees. Was Vicky going to 
die? And was this her last message to her, mystically sug¬ 
gested? She, the newly-initiated, saw perhaps with clearer 
eyes the things that belonged to her Faith. She was able to 
speak with a certain authority. And she was calling to her. 
She knew now perhaps the source and nature of the shadow 
that for so long had hung over Pendre. 

“We mustn’t be divided in Heaven ...” 

Vicky sank back, white and exhausted, her dark eyes closed, 
a faint sweet smile upon her lips. For the moment Lady 
Pendre believed that she had died thus without a struggle, that 
the feeble young heart had ceased to beat. 

She sprang up and ran into the dressing-room, calling 
“Nurse—Nurse!” 

The nurse hurried into the sick-room without a word. Lord 
Pendre grasped his wife’s arm; he thought she was going to 
faint. 

“My dear, what’s the matter? Is she worse?” 

“Oh, she’s dying, Hugo—she’s dying.” She was sobbing in 
his arms. 

He held her as they went to the open door of Vicky’s room. 
Lord Pendre looked stealthily in. And he felt that unless 
someone had assured him that the little doll-like figure on the 
bed was his own child he would never have recognized her. 
Her tiny face was small and shrunken, and of a yellowish- 
white color resembling ancient wax. The hair was closely 


356 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


cut like a boy’s, indicating the shape of her small head and 
incredibly diminishing its size. The black penciled brows and 
long black lashes made four narrow dark horizontal lines upon 
the pallid whiteness of her face. She looked older and 
shrunken, and at the same time childishly small and young. 
Her little hands, lying upon the silken bedspread, were like 
thin claws. 

He turned abruptly away, and went back into the dressing- 
room, sitting there with his head buried in his hands so that 
only the black thatch of hair was visible. He hardly noticed 
anyone. Someone went to the telephone on the landing below 
and rang up the doctor; he could hear the urgent, one-sided 
conversation. People passed him, going in and out of the 
sick-room. Martin, Eustace, his wife, Barbara, the nurses, 
and at last the doctor. He saw them through the chinks in 
his fingers, though he was hardly aware of it. Vicky was 
dying . . . What effect would this have upon his wife? 

Even now it was difficult for him to realize that Vicky was 
Martin’s wife. What a strange unconventional thing—a 
death-bed marriage! He had read and even heard of such 
things, but he had never dreamed that they could happen in 
his own house. It was of course, because the Church wanted 
to claim Vicky at any cost, alive or dead. And with a Catholic 
husband to protect her rights, their task was made all the 
easier. Ah, how he hated the Catholic Church and all that 
it stood for, with its pretended rights over the souls of men! 
The one thing whose power he had always felt to be greater 
than his own. All his wealth was of no avail against it. He 
did not believe in its Divine foundation, nevertheless there was 
something in the mysterious nature of its power that baffled 
him. And he had always feared that one day it would assert 
its ancient authority over his wife and take her away from 
him. 

Someone touched him on the shoulder. He looked up; it 
was Eustace. 

“Just a fainting-fit, Dad. She’s most awfully weak, and of 
course her heart—. But the doctor’s given her an injection. 


ANXIETY 


35 7 


3 

Even Barbara had lost something of her hard brightness at 
this crisis. Of course she had never been very sympathetic 
to her sister, but the grave danger of death that threatened 
her, naturally elicited anxiety and pity; it was always sad 
when a girl died on the very threshold of life. And Vicky 
hadn’t had a very happy life. It was her own fault, of course; 
she could never accept things quite simply and submissively, 
she was always rebellious, on the defensive. . . . 

Barbara blamed no one for her sister’s illness. She took a 
perfectly normal commonplace view of the situation. Vicky 
may have had a not unnatural fear that she was going to be 
forced to marry a man she disliked, while she was apparently 
in love with another whom she would never be allowed to 
marry. But these two things combined could never give her 
typhoid fever, so there could be no sort of relation between 
her unhappiness and her illness. She had simply picked up a 
germ. London, like all great cities, was full of germs. Even 
the dust of country places was not free from them. One had 
to take one’s chances, and really, considering the fearful 
dangers that menaced one on every side, it was astonishing 
that so many people attained to a ripe old age! 

It would therefore be absurd of her father to feel any re¬ 
morse— as this morning on the journey down he had actually 
threatened to do—just because he had had such rows with 
Vicky lately about Ernest Soames. One didn’t want to be 
unkind, of course, but Vicky could really be very trying. If 
anyone was to blame she was. She had brought it on herself. 

In the afternoon Eustace took her for a walk along the 
front. It was useless for them both to remain indoors, and 
Barbara had shown signs of growing restlessness. She did 
not like to suggest going back to London when they were 
all so anxious; she supposed that she had better stay for one 
night at least. It wasn’t much good, as she wasn’t allowed 
to speak to Vicky, who was to be kept absolutely quiet, and 
naturally couldn’t talk to anyone. 

“I wonder Major Sedgwick likes to hang about in this way 


358 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


just now, Eustie,” she remarked. “It must be odious to Dad 
to have him. I was quite thankful he didn't appear at 
luncheon." 

“Well, he’s got a jolly good right to be here, if you want 
to know," replied her brother, rather astonished to find that 
Barbara knew nothing of the marriage. 

But everyone had been so occupied and anxious, that there 
had really been no opportunity of telling her. Vicky had 
given them all a fright that morning wfith her prolonged fit 
of unconsciousness, during which the pulse had been scarcely 
perceptible. 

Barbara drew herself up. She was a tall woman, and in 
her beautiful moleskin coat she looked a very fashionable 
figure, indeed almost extravagantly thin and slight. 

“He’ll never be allowed to marry Vicky, even if the poor 
child does get better. And I must say it’s bad form of him 
to show himself when Dad’s here—it’s taking a mean ad¬ 
vantage, because he knows he can’t say anything to him." 

“Martin’s got more right to be with Vicky than any of us," 
said Eustace. 

Barbara smiled. Her ill-humor was always quickly over. 

“Don’t be absurd, Eustie dear," she said coaxingly. 

“I’m not absurd. But, you see, Vicky happens to be Mar¬ 
tin’s wife. I expect Dad knows it by this time too. They 
were married yesterday morning." 

“Married!’’ Her mouth dropped open. She glanced sharply 
at Eustace, but she could see by his grave serious face that 
he meant every word he said. “Married? What do you 
mean ?" 

“Just that. The priest came yesterday morning—an awfully 
good sort, called Father Dering. Martin had a special li¬ 
cense." 

“A priest!” repeated Barbara. A Catholic priest ?" 

“Yes, very naturally, since they’re both Catholics. Martin 
was received while he was in Malta this year, and Vicky on 
Sunday morning." 

“She couldn’t have known what she was doing!’’ exclaimed 
Barbara indignantly. 


ANXIETY 


359 


“Well, we think she did. She asked to be received before 
she was married. Martin, you see, had talked to her about 
it when he saw her again in London.” 

“But it can’t count—any of it!” she said, and now there 
was a note of relief in her voice. “We can always prove 
afterward that she was too ill to know what she was doing— 
that both these things were forced upon her by Martin. No 
one pays any attention to death-bed ceremonies, and Vicky 
was supposed to be dying.” 

“With Catholics marriage is a Sacrament. And Vicky 
knew quite well what she was doing. She was all in white— 
Mother made her look too sweet. And they were both so calm 
and brave—their voices never faltered.” His eyes filled sud¬ 
denly with tears. 

“Do you mean to say Mother had a hand in it?” inquired 
Barbara, with a touch of indignation. 

“Certainly. She knew what was going on—she didn’t seem 
to mind.” 

“I suppose she preserved a sphinx-like attitude all through 
the proceedings ?” she asked satirically. 

“She didn’t say much,” he admitted cautiously. “But I think 
somehow she wasn’t against it. Although she wasn’t present 
herself, she put everything ready for Father Dering when he 
brought Vicky the Holy Viaticum.” 

“Dear Eustie, how simply awful to think we have such 
things in the family now. Priests, and the confessional and 
things like that. I do hope nothing has been said in front of 
the servants. They would think it all so queer!” 

“Does it matter what they think?” He could hardly restrain 
a smile. 

They walked on a little way in silence, and than Barbara 
said: 

“Poor Dad—how he will hate it all! And it’s been done 
behind his back, too, in such an underhand kind of way. I 
really wonder at Mother permitting it. He hates the Catholic 
religion, and he can’t bear Martin Sedgwick, and now he’s got 
both in the family.” 


360 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Barbara was much more perturbed than she cared to show. 
There seemed such a distinct want of balance somewhere, and 
she had always hoped that she and her family were perfectly 
normal and well-poised. What would Gerard think of them 
all ? He so disliked any deviation from the conventional rut, 
hard-headed business man that he was. These untoward, un¬ 
conventional happenings would be certain to arouse his bit¬ 
terest scorn. 

To be received into the Catholic Church, and married on 
what might well prove to be her death-bed, were actions of 
which only people of Vicky’s perversity were capable. She 
couldn’t have known what she was doing—whatever Eustace 
might say to the contrary. She was too young—only eighteen, 
and absurdly childish for her age. They could easily prove 
undue influence. She had always had this silly slavish ad¬ 
miration and hero-worship for Martin ever since he first came 
to Pendre. He could make her do whatever he liked even 
then. Barbara was angry with her sister, but she was far 
more angry with Martin. 

“If only she’d married Ernest Soames last June when Dad 
wanted her to, none of this need ever have happened,” she 
remarked bitterly. 

How could she return home and relate such a story as this 
to Gerard? He wasn’t very fond of her family at the best 
of times, with the solitary exception of her father, for whom 
he had a very genuine admiration. He was always asking 
why that blighter Eustace did nothing but loaf about at 
Pendre, or saying what a queer passionate temper Vicky had. 
Gerard wasn’t likely to receive these fresh exhibitions of ec¬ 
centricity in silence, and she dreaded in anticipation his sar¬ 
castic comments. 

“Well, we’d better go back now, and see how they’re getting 
on,” Eustace remarked presently. He never liked being away 
from the house for long at a time. There was always the 
dreadful fear that the heart might fail suddenly. And yet, 
with it all, his hope was very strong. He couldn’t believe, 
as Martin so evidently did, that Vicky was going to die. . . . 


ANXIETY 


361 


4 

As they approached the house they saw Martin standing at 
the dining-room window, as if awaiting their return. When 
he saw them he disappeared, and a second later had flung open 
the front door to receive them. He hardly seemed to notice 
Barbara, but seized Eustace’ hand, grasping it almost fiercely. 

“Eustace!” he said. 

Then his strong self-control, which had never deserted him 
all through these days of bitter anxiety, gave way utterly; the 
tears poured down his hard bronzed cheeks; he seemed unable 
to speak. . . . 

Eustace’ face had gone deathly white. He thought: “He’s 
going to tell me that she’s dead. It was madness to go out—” 

“Oh, Eustace—the doctor, says she’s better. She’s got a 
sporting chance! Thank God! . . . Thank God! ...” 

Barbara felt an odd lump in her throat. It was horrible to 
see a man cry, especially a man of such proven valor and 
courage as Martin Sedgwick. She slipped past them into the 
house, and hurried up the stairs. . . . 


CHAPTER XIX 


In Rome 

1 

TT WAS not, however, until December that Vicky was well 
enough to leave Brighton. Martin obtained a few weeks' 
leave, and took her to the south of France, to bask for a time 
in the sunlight, far from the scene of her long distressing 
illness. 

Eustace went back to Pendre for Christmas, more for his 
mother’s sake than for his own. He too was feeling the reac¬ 
tion after those days and weeks of fierce anxiety. And there 
still remained the pressing question of his own future to solve. 

Almost immediately after his return he ascertained that 
Mrs. Dyrham had gone abroad, taking Miss Tresham with her. 
Her house was shut up. Pamela was back at Pendre, de¬ 
lighted to find herself within those hospitable walls after so 
many disagreeable months at West Kensington. Secretly she 
was turning her eyes Soames-ward once more, this time with 
an increase of hope. Soames had shown lately that he was 
at least aware of her. They met sometimes in Llyn, for he did 
not often come now to Pendre. He still had the feeling that 
he had been badly treated, and his old friendship for Lord 
Pendre seemed to be a thing of the past. 

Christmas had gone; the old year, which had been such an 
eventful one for them, had passed away. January had set 
in, bleak and wintry. It was not till then that Eustace di¬ 
vulged his plan of going abroad to his mother. 

“But I don’t know what your father will say,” she said in 
a tone of mildest remonstrance; “he’s been hoping so, that 
you’d soon go north. Of course, he understood it wasn’t pos¬ 
sible while Vicky was ill. ...” 

362 


IN ROME 


363 


“I put off going abroad in the first instance because of 
Vicky, or you know I should have gone last year. How 
splendid it is to think she’s so happy!” His face kindled. 

“Yes. I think she’s got everything to make her happy,” 
said Lady Pendre. “Everything, that is, except money.” 

She was a little troubled at times about the finances of the 
young couple. Lord Pendre could only be induced to give his 
daughter the smallest of dress-allowances, and this prolonged 
stay in the South must have strained their resources to the 
uttermost. Still, they had never complained. Vicky was 
growing stronger every day; she wrote and said she was 
happier than she had ever thought it possible to be. 

“Where shall you go, Eustie ?” 

“Oh, I think I shall look in on them at Menton and then 
go on to Rome,” he answered. 

“To Rome!” she echoed. 

“Yes—I’ve always wanted to go there.” 

“How shall you manage ?” 

“I’ve got my gratuity intact. When that’s gone I shall 
come back and look for a job if Dad refuses to have me at 
Wingrave’s.” 

“But why should he refuse?” 

“Mummie, you know he’ll never have me there when I’m a 
Catholic.” 

He went up to her then, sat at her feet near the fire, and 
leaned his head against her knees, just as he had done when 
he was a little boy. And she stretched out her hand, just as 
she had done in the old days, and stroked his thick dark hair, 
with a soft and caressing gesture. 

“So you still think you’ll be one, Eustie ?” 

“Yes, I’m quite sure. I’ve known I should be for ages. 
Mother—I wish there was some hope of you !” He threw 
back his head and looked smilingly into her face. 

She drew back her hand sharply, and said: 

“Of me?” 

“Yes. I’ve often felt you’d have so little to learn. 

She was silent. She could not tell him. Less now than 
ever. What would he think of her, full as he was of the 


364 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW\ 

ardor of the intending convert? Would he not be filled with 
horror and dismay? She remembered then with a kind of 
anguish Vicky’s words: “You weren’t always in the shadow 
. . . you must come back . . . Our Lord is waiting ... I 
felt yesterday that He wanted you . . ." 

All that time of Vicky’s illness seemed to her now like a 
prolonged and dreadful dream. There were moments of il¬ 
lumination, of course—the day Vicky was received—the morn¬ 
ing when Father Dering brought the Holy Viaticum into the 
house where she, an apostate, was waiting to receive him. 
But the torture, the anguish of mind she had endured then, 
had faded a little. She had come home to take up the old 
duties, the old life. Environment had not been without its 
effect upon her. She had no wild yearnings now, such as she 
had known in those days at Brighton. No desire to go away 
and meet her martyrdom. She had just crept back to Pendre 
. . . glad to be there. 

Now Eustace, the last to leave the nest, was going from 
her. How could she bear it? More and more had she learned 
to depend upon him, to lean on his young strength. Eustace, 
the dearest of all . . . 

“I don’t want Dad to know till I come back,’’ he said; “it’ll 
only make things harder for you. I’ll tell him that I must 
have a change. It’s been a pretty bad time for us all this 
autumn." 

That night at dinner he told his father of his intended 
journey. Lord Pendre frowned heavily and said: 

“What on earth do you want to go away for ? You’ve been 
idle now for nearly a year. You ought to be getting to work." 

Events had changed him but little. The silver in his hair 
and beard was slightly more plentiful than it had been, but 
his eyes still flashed with their old fire; he had lost nothing 
of his fierce autocratic temper. Vicky was not yet fully for¬ 
given ; he hoped there would be no talk of her visiting Pendre 
for a long time to come. He wasn’t prepared to have Cath¬ 
olics there, even if one of them was his own daughter. He 
had hoped that when she came to her senses she would have 
given up all that nonsense. . . But from all he could gather, 


IN ROME 


365 


she seemed to cling to it more fervently than ever. He 
couldn’t have that sort of thing at Pendre; it would only make 
his wife restless. 

“Pll work when I come back if you care to give me a job 
at Wingrave’s,” answered Eustace. 

“You know that it’s there—waiting for you. But I’m not 
going to keep it open forever while you wander about the 
world amusing yourself, and so I tell you. And may I ask 
what you’re going to live on in the meantime?” 

It was characteristic of Lord Pendre that he always viewed 
every matter from its financial aspect. 

“My gratuity,” answered Eustace laconically. “It’ll last me 
ages. When it’s finished I shall come back, like the prodigal 
son.” 

There was a whimsical look in his dark eyes. 

From across the table Pamela Webb was watching him. 
She thought: “How handsome he looks to-night.” She re¬ 
garded him with a dull envy. He was consistently polite to 
her, but he took no more notice of her than was absolutely 
necessary. She sighed, and wondered if Ernest Soames would 
be in Llyn to-morrow afternoon—he had said something about 
it. She would suggest his taking her over to St. David’s Bay 
in the car, if they did meet. It was quite a long run, they 
would have time for a good talk . . . Ernest seemed to have 
quite recovered from his disappointment about Vicky; he was 
only rather annoyed still with Lord Pendre. 

She pictured herself entertaining Eustace at Moth Hill 
Park. . . . 

2 

Eustace reached Rome about the middle of January. Bleak 
and chill winds held the place in their grip. A drizzling rain 
fell, and Rome had the tragically melancholy aspect which 
most Italian cities present in wet weather. 

There was another reason for this melancholy. . . . Armed 
with an introduction from Father Sheldon, Eustace. called 
upon an eminent Cardinal with a view to gaining admittance 


366 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


to one of the audiences given by the Holy Father, only to 
learn that the Pope was suffering from a severe cold and that 
all audiences were temporarily suspended. 

It was not until the afternoon of the following day that 
the news flashed through the city that the Holy Father’s ill¬ 
ness had become serious. There were alarming symptoms; he 
had received the Last Sacraments. Rumor was rife, and there 
were not wanting voices to affirm that death had already super¬ 
vened. It was a Friday, and no one spoke or thought of any¬ 
thing else. On all sides, in the modest inn where Eustace, 
mindful of his fast-diminishing gratuity, had taken a cheap 
room, he heard the matter discussed. Everyone seemed to 
have some fresh scrap of information to impart. One had a 
friend living in the Vatican, who had actually interviewed the 
doctor; another could boast of a cousin in the Noble Guard, 
who had been on duty all the day before and could speak with 
perfect accuracy. The little pyramid of information, false 
and true, slowly augmented, and rumor contradicted rumor 
with appalling rapidity and verisimilitude. 

In the evening, Eustace went down to the great Piazza of 
St. Peter’s and found it crowded with people. The rain had 
ceased; a few pale stars flickered in the sky, the great wide 
piazza with its out-thrust colonnades, was filled with the deep 
blue dusk of twilight. St. Peter’s stood there, almost grim in 
its massive stupendous beauty. The figures upon the roof 
were etched against the evening sky, and the twilight seemed 
to imbue them with a hint of life and movement. The center 
one, that of Our Lord, carried a Cross. 

The great fountains were playing, and the cool plash of the 
falling water made a soft accompaniment to the subdued 
sounds that emanated from the crowd. The place displayed a 
strangely animated aspect, as if almost the whole of Rome 
had gathered there, drawn thither by anxiety, sympathy, 
curiosity, or a mere desire to ascertain the news for sheer 
business purposes. But for the most part voices were lowered, 
and the people showed a seriousness, a solemnity not usually 
associated with Latin crowds. Many eyes gazed up at the 
windows of the Pope’s apartment. A faint subdued light 


IN ROME 


367 


showed through the chinks of the closed shutters. At the 
great bronze door the Swiss Guards in their heavy winter 
cloaks stood denying ingress to all but a favored few. Within 
—what was happening? Was the frail form of Benedict XV, 
with its spirit too great for the fragile envelope of flesh, still 
battling gallantly for life, or was it already sinking upon un¬ 
consciousness? To many of those present he was unknown 
by sight; they knew him only by the photographs that every¬ 
where decorated the shop-windows—a delicate, suffering face 
with wistful eyes. 

A few hawkers of evening papers moved about in the crowd, 
offering the latest bulletin. Diplomats emerged from the 
Vatican and were swept away in rapid automobiles. Not 
only was all Rome waiting expectantly and with breathless 
anxiety for news, but it seemed as if all the world beyond 
Rome shared in that tense anticipation. 

There had been a slight rally ... a faint hope was 
adumbrated. The heart was a little stronger. The Holy 
Father had spoken a few words, had begged one of the aged 
cardinals to take some rest . . . Some figures, hopeless of 
hearing anything that night, detached themselves from the 
crowd and disappeared into the Borgo. 

Eustace waited a little longer. He did not understand much 
of what was being said so loquaciously around him, although 
his school-knowledge of Latin helped him a little, enabling him 
sometimes to catch the gist of it. Then he walked slowly 
along the Borgo —Bnrgus Saxonum —since here in olden days 
the Anglo-Saxons possessed a hospice for their many pilgrims, 
when the ancient basilica of St. Peter’s was still standing. 
He passed the beautiful Renaissance palace, once the property 
of Henry VIII, in whose Catholic days it served as a residence 
for the British Ambassador, and within whose walls it was 
said that Cardinal Wolsey had sojourned. Opposite was 
Raphael’s palace, and in the center of the piazza that opened 
out between the Borgo Vecchio and the Borgo Nuovo, Pope 
Paul V’s lovely fountain flung up its delicate silver spray. 
Rome was full of English memories and associations, dating 
back to those days when loyalty to the Holy See was a pas- 


368 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW. 


sionate sentiment for which men and women lived and died 
and when England had earned for herself the proud title of 
the “Dowry of Our Lady/’ There were Catholic families— 
all honor to them—who had kept their faith and their lamps 
burning, even as at Pendre during those penal days that fol¬ 
lowed, when monasteries were seized and their inmates slain 
or driven into exile, when churches were desecrated and their 
priests imprisoned and tortured. And now after more than 
three centuries there was a steady stream of British converts 
flowing Rome-ward year by year. 

He glanced back at the great Dome, a mass of solid dark¬ 
ness above which the dark blue winter sky was scattered with 
bright frosty stars. 

3 

In the morning Eustace returned to St. Peter’s at an early 
hour, and went down into the crypt to hear Mass. Even at 
that early hour it was very full of worshipers, and he felt that 
he was seeing the great basilica under an entirely new aspect. 
The low vaulted ceiling; the deep surrounding dusk spreading 
far down those narrow cloisters where lay the dust of illus¬ 
trious popes and kings; the gleaming candles upon the altars; 
the black silhouettes of the worshipers, made him think of the 
days when the early Christians were constrained to hear Mass 
at some subterranean and secret altar, amid the dust of their 
own dead, in the Roman Catacombs. 

As he knelt there experiencing a devotion far more pro¬ 
found than any he had yet felt and which he attributed to the 
spirit of place, he thought involuntarily of the chapel at 
Pendre whose lamp had been for so long extinguished. 

Pendre—his mother—Vicky—he prayed for them all now. 
Especially for his mother, for whom he felt a deep and still 
inexplicable anxiety. He longed, even while he dreaded, to 
know that secret of hers, so jealously, so scrupulously guarded. 

The bell rang. He bowed his head. He was hearing Mass 
in the very spot where St. Peter must once have stood, close 
to the place where he suffered his terrible martyrdom. Eustace 


IN ROME 


369 


raised his eyes and saw the strangely shining Host, uplifted 
for all to see and worship. 

When Mass was over he remained there, examining the 
tombs about him. There was the great white marble tomb of 
Pope Pius X, who was soon, so rumor affirmed, to be raised 
to the Altars of the Church. Flowers and wfeaths had been 
strewn upon it, some mere humble little offerings, the gift per¬ 
haps of the poor from among whom he had sprung and whom 
he had so loved all his life. Just beyond was the huge amor¬ 
phous mass of stone that marked the last resting place of the 
Stuart kings, father and sons, of whom it had been well said 
that they “gave three crowns for a Mass.” Of what avail 
would their earthly crowns have been to them now? Long 
ago their passionate fidelity must have won for them, despite 
so much of weakness and failure, its due reward in the King¬ 
dom of Heaven. . . . 

Three Crowns for a Mass. . . . Eustace could hardly ex¬ 
plain why that saying recurred to him now. What he himself 
stood to lose was trivial and insignificant beside their immense 
sacrifice of temporal things and worldly honors. Pendre. . . . 
yes, it might be that he would never be permitted to restore 
the' chapel and re-light the lamp, and kneel once more before 
the Blessed Sacrament in a place that had been for so long 
dedicated to the worship of God, to the Faith of His One 
True Church. 

Yet these considerations bore no weight with him now. He 
had but one wish—to make his abjuration in the crypt of St. 
Peter’s, here in the very heart of Christendom. He had always 
known'subconsciously that this was his motive for coming to 
Rome. And now the moment was surely approaching. . . . 

It must take place here in the crypt, and nowhere else. For 
here only did he seem to have reached his journey’s end. . 

He climbed the narrow winding stairs back into the basilica, 
and knelt for a time near the Confession. The golden lamps 
were burning in a semicircle around it; they looked like shin¬ 
ing flowers, in the dusk of the early winter’s morning. He 
thought of St. Peter, the Fisherman, who had been the first 
to receive the Keys. And then he thought of this latest sue- 


370 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


cessor of St. Peter who, yonder within the great palace, was 
fighting for life while all the world watched and waited in 
breathless suspense. 

All that day rumor was rife in the city, but early on the 
following morning Eustace knew that Death had entered the 
great marble palace of the Vatican, and laid his cold hand 
' upon the Holy Father. He had foreseen, so people said, the 
hour of his death. “Do go and rest,” he had said to one of the 
cardinals, “there is plenty of time between now and six 
o’clock.” At six o’clock the end came, and Benedict XV 
was gathered to the two hundred and fifty-nine popes who 
had preceded him in his great Office. 

The piazza held a strange attraction for Eustace, it seemed 
to be the place to which all others converged. He returned 
thither on the Monday morning—a beautiful day that almost 
heralded spring with its warm airs and bright sunshine. The 
fountains flung up their great silver jets of spray touched to 
gold by the winter sunshine. And it seemed to him almost 
natural, a thing inevitable given the scene and the circum¬ 
stances, that he should encounter Nella Tresham close to the 
huge modern statue of St. Peter. 

She was dressed in deep mourning. Her face was pale and 
composed and had lost something of its vivacity. Her hair 
struck a note of brilliant color amid her somber garb. In hue, 
he thought, it almost resembled that of a shining goldfish. 

He went eagerly up to her, lifting his hat. She evinced no 
surprise, but'a gleam of pleasure lit up her face. 

“Where are you staying?” he inquired. 

“I’m staying with Mrs. Dyrham—she’s taken an apartment 
here for the winter,” she said. “It’s in Via Sistina—near the 
top of the Spanish steps.” 

Meeting her thus, he felt that they were old and intimate 
friends. Of course he could not expect her to share the joy 
that was passionately invading his whole being. His thoughts 
traveled with extraordinary celerity. He saw his future 
mapped out in strong distinct lines. In a few weeks he would 
be a Catholic—that was already settled, and the Cardinal to 
whom Father Sheldon had given him an introduction had 


IN ROME 


371 


promised to receive him immediately after the Conclave. And 
Nella would share that Catholic life of his. She would be his 
wife. Together they would follow that hard and beautiful 
road. The strength and purity of her face, to which grief 
had added a slight austerity, gave him a new courage and 
confidence. 

“I have two tickets for St. Peter’s,” she said, after a 
moment. “It’s shut to-day, you know. One can only go in with 
a ticket, because they are going to bring the Holy Father down 
for the lying-in-state.” 

“I should like to come. I’d really no hope of getting in,” 
he said. 

He longed to tell her then something about himself, of his 
secret history since their parting, of the story of Vicky’s illness 
and reception into the Church and marriage. But he re¬ 
frained. Only, it was so difficult to believe that she could not 
see into his heart and know how securely and immutably her 
own image was therein enthroned. 

At that moment Pendre and Moth Hill and Glen Cottage, 
and the frozen road that passed through Llyn within earshot 
of the sea, all seemed incredibly remote. Even the world 
about them was far away and insubstantial. He was in a 
dream, scarcely able to realize the joy that was his. 

They entered St. Peter’s by a side door. Already some 
thousands of people had gathered there, men, women and 
children clad for the most part in black or in somber colors, 
waiting in solemn and respectful silence. 

Presently the cortege appeared. The slight small form of 
the dead pope was carried shoulder-high upon a bier. His 
head surmounted by a gold miter was raised slightly upon a 
striped velvet cushion. White and gold striped silk covered his 
throat and emphasised the rather dark pallor of his sleeping 
face. 

Eustace and Nella stood as near as the papal troops would 
permit to a purple catafalque which had been placed close to 
the Confession. The bier was laid upon this, and the pro¬ 
cession paused while the Miserere and De Profundis psalms 
were sung. The heavy chanting of this funereal music sounded 


372 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


solemnly through the half-darkened basilica. Then the bier 
was lifted up once more, the procession re-formed, the cortege 
resumed its journey toward the chapel of the Blessed Sacra¬ 
ment. 

This time it passed quite close to Eustace and Nella, kneel¬ 
ing there on the outskirts of the crowd. They could see the 
face quite plainly with its marks of brief severe suffering. 
The mouth sagged open a little at the left corner. The black 
brows were strongly marked. The heavy lids were closed 
over the kindly wistful dark eyes. 

But those who had seen Pope Benedict XV carried into St. 
Peter’s to the shrill glad music of the silver trumpets on the 
day of the Canonization of St. Joan of Arc—surely the mo¬ 
ment of his greatest and most supreme Pontifical triumph— 
could not help contrasting it with the simplicity of his last 
entrance when he came to take his place among the long line 
of dead popes who were resting in the dim crypt below. . . . 

Carried thus into the Blessed Sacrament Chapel, made im¬ 
mortally beautiful by Bernini’s tabernacle with its adoring 
angels, the Holy Father was laid upon a raised catafalque 
close to the gates, his head toward the altar, his face visible 
to all who passed. Eighteen tall candles burned around‘him, 
their flickering flames causing a movement of lights and 
shadows to pass wave-like over him. Officers of the Noble 
Guard stood at each corner of the bier, with a curious un¬ 
natural immobility. With his strong yet delicate features, his 
small patrician hands, the dead Pope looked like a finely-carven 
figure upon some exquisite Renaissance tomb. . . . 

As Eustace gazed upon this man whom he had never seen 
in life, he made a rapid mental survey of his short and tragic 
Pontificate. His cry for peace that had always been mis¬ 
judged and misinterpreted. The War that had so surely killed 
Pius X in a few weeks, had also hastened his own end. Never 
perhaps a saint, like his great and beloved predecessor, he 
had yet been something of a martyr. Frail and austere, he 
had spoken fearlessly when speech was necessary; he had 
never swerved from a desire to do all he could to arrest the 
pitiless massacre of young life in Europe. Tracing the miss- 


IN ROME 


373 


ing, obtaining the release of some prisoners, the pardon of 
others—these were among the most important operations that 
he had instituted and organized at the Vatican. But in his 
efforts to observe absolute neutrality—for he had sheep in all 
these pastures—he had incurred the abuse of every belligerent 
country. He received insult and calumny in silence, so much 
so that it would seem during those terrible years he had 
scrupulously followed the Divine example summed up briefly 
in those words: Jesus autem tacebat. The silence of Pope 
Benedict! He had made no reply to his accusers; he had 
never attempted to justify himself. The lonely little figure in 
the Vatican had only worked silently and ceaselessly for the 
one cause of peace. And now “the cleverest head in Europe, 
as his had been called by a reluctant, unwilling admirer, had 
finished its task. The frail hands were stilled, and death had 
wrought in marble the fine, delicate, and patrician features 
of the man who for more than seven troubled years had worn 
the Triple Crown and carried the great Keys of the Catholic 
Church. . . . 

4 

Nella’s eyes were bright with tears as she stood there. 
Her lips moved. . . . Eustace knew that she was praying. It 
seemed to him that in this solemn and poignant moment they 
were being drawn irresistibly nearer to each other. 

He glanced at her as they moved on with the surging crowd 
toward the door. Her beauty seemed to him almost wonder¬ 
ful. And then his heart sank a little. By the very step that 
would draw them more closely together, they might be forever 
separated. He was heir to Pendre, to his father’s title and 
wealth—but might that title not prove to be an empty one? 
Would she be willing to face poverty and effort with him? 
He felt a boundless ambition stirring within him like a strong 
young impulse. He would work for her. Surely with such an 
incentive he would give of his best. 

The crowd swept them onward. Soon they were once more 
outside in the piazza, dimly illuminated by the pale sunshine 


374 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


of this delicate austere January day. The sky was very blue, 
and the figures of the saints, standing at intervals upon the 
summit of the colonnades, were etched against it in pale grey 
silhouette. They looked almost like animated figures, gestic¬ 
ulating to each other, possessing nothing of the Greek calm 
associated with statues. They seemed indeed to form part of 
this world of life and energetic movement, where the great 
fountains flung up their glittering rainbow showers, and the 
busy piazza gave evidence of warm pulsing life. . . . the life 
of Italy . . , . her spiritual resurrection after the War, that 
was to make of her once more a great nation. . . . 

“I’ll take you home,” said Eustace. He hailed a tatfi, and 
they drove down to the Tiber. Looking back, the Dome was 
bluish grey, and the Figure of the Redeemer bearing His 
Cross stood out sharply, with the Apostles and St. John the 
Baptist grouped on either side of Him. And in that limpid 
and translucent atmosphere these figures too seemed to possess 
life and movement, almost as if they were holding some mysti¬ 
cal colloquy. 

“And after the funeral there’ll be a Conclave,” said Nella, 
“I wonder who the next Pope will be. People talk of the 
Cardinal Archbishop of Milan—one of the greatest scholars 
in the Church. But you know the saying—he who goes into 
the conclave Pope comes out a Cardinal.” 

They reached the door of the house in Via Sistina where 
Mrs. Dyrham was living. 

“I shall see you again?” he said. “I must see you again.” 

“Oh yes—whenever you like. I’m sure Mrs. Dyrham will 
be delighted.” 

“And Mrs. Welby?” 

“Oh, she’s here too, but she didn’t come with me to-day be¬ 
cause she had a cold. Wasn’t it kind of Mrs. Dyrham to invite 
us both? But then Mrs. Welby speaks Italian, and that’s very 
useful.” 

She put her hand in his for a second and then entered the 
lift, that was at the far end of the hall. When she had 
vanished, he walked slowly away and went down the Spanish 
Steps back to the hotel, scarcely able even now to believe in 


IN ROME 


375 


the reality of the scene. But finding Nella in this way seemed 
in a sense to complete the Roman picture for him, joining as 
it were the two broken ends of his life, bringing Rome and 
Pendre into juxtaposition. Making of them in despite of all 
things, a harmonious whole. 

Her face haunted him now—the small beautiful oval with 
its perfect coloring as of a wild rose petal—the complexion 
that is only found with brightly-colored hair, the dark blue 
eyes with grey shadows in them. Such a look of quiet 
strength and poise—such a lovable, trustable face. 

He felt the warm life of the city about him, its spiritual 
life that made such a wonderful background to all its modern 
activities. Rome could never decay as Athens had done; she 
could never die; she was a vast palimpsest upon which succes¬ 
sive civilization had written their indelible records. Christian¬ 
ity kept her alive and sentient and progressive; whatever hap¬ 
pened to her in other and temporal ways, she must always 
remain the heart of Christendom. Sometimes in the past 
her pulse had grown feeble; it seemed almost as if 
she had fallen upon irreparable ruin, because of the deep 
wounds to her civic life, the storming and sacking and destruc¬ 
tion of her ancient monuments by lawless armies. But always 
the spiritual life within her had triumphed; she was still the 
first of cities, and it was Catholicism that made her so. 

And looking down upon her from the top of the Spanish 
Steps, it seemed to Eustace that she was fair beyond all 
dreams. . . . 

Soon after his return to the hotel, he received a telephone 
message from Mrs. Dyrham, inviting him to dine with her 
that night. Eustace accepted, the prospect of seeing Nella 
again so soon was too tempting to be refused. But he felt if 
it was Mrs. Dyrham’s intention deliberately to “encourage” 
him that she was acting under a false belief. She might be 
picturing him as a man of great future wealth and importance 
whom it would be well for Nella to marry. Perhaps she had 
heard something from Mrs. Welby of his evident interest in 


376 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

Nella, and was determined to do all that she could to help the 
matter on. 

His own future indeed now seemed to him so appallingly 
uncertain that he wondered whether he would ever have the 
courage to ask Nella to marry him. Directly the news that he 
was a Catholic reached his father’s ears—and he was deter¬ 
mined to tell him immediately after the ceremony had taken 
place—he knew that he could look for no further help from 
him. The gates of Wingrave’s works would be automatically 
closed to him, and Gerard Hammond’s younger brother would 
certainly receive the coveted vacant post. It wasn’t that he 
wanted money—he told himself now—but he did want work 
that would bring him in enough to live upon. And that, at 
the present moment, was not easy to find. 

He arrived at Mrs. Dyrham’s sumptuous apartment at eight 
o’clock. It was not a large party. Besides Mrs. Dyrham, Mrs. 
Welby and Nella, there were only present a young diplomat 
and his wife, a Mr. and Mrs. Craven, and Monsignor Fane, 
an English priest who had lived for many years in Rome and 
was extremely well known both in “Black” society and at the 
Vatican (where he had been indeed domestic prelate both to 
the dead Pope and his predecessor). He was a man of some 
sixty odd years, tall, with smooth dark hair slightly silvered 
with grey, very dark eyes, and a polished courtly manner. He 
seemed extremely interested in Eustace, and after dinner en¬ 
gaged him in conversation in rather a particular w T ay. 

Eustace thought little of this, probably the Monsignor was a 
friend of Nella’s, and was submitting him to a certain scrutiny. 

Nor did this astonish him. Catholics were necessarily very 
careful when any question of marriage arose, and his slight 
attentions to Nella might already have been construed into a 
serious matrimonial purpose. The difference in their faith— 
for as yet no one present was aware of his resolve to be re¬ 
ceived into the Church almost immediately—might render it 
necessary for especial precautions to be taken. Even if Mrs. 
Dyrham regarded the matter from a merely worldly point of 
view, and thought it would be an excellent thing for Nella to 
marry Lord Pendre’s only son and heir, Mrs. Welby would 


IN ROME 


377 


scarcely be satisfied with these temporal advantages for the 
girl to whom she stood now almost in the relation of a mother. 

Monsignor Fane’s motive for taking him apart in this way 
after dinner might have been based upon some hint from Mrs. 
Welby, but Eustace could not but believe that there was yet 
another reason for his thus singling him out. And it was 
revealed at last when he said suddenly: 

“By the way, was your father Mr. Hugo Wingrave?” 

“Yes,” answered Eustace. 

Aware that he was being secretly inspected, Eustace was 
nevertheless charmed with the Roman prelate, whose courtly 
manners and fine ascetic aquiline face attracted him immedi¬ 
ately. But this question startled him, and he flushed slightly 
beneath the dark penetrating gaze. He felt uneasy. It was 
absurd of course. What could Monsignor Fane possibly 
know of his father? He did not think his parents had ever 
been in Rome since their original meeting there, shortly be¬ 
fore their marriage. 

“Then you mother was Miss Giselda Kelsey ?” 

“Yes ...” 

There was a stern, cold look now in the priest’s eyes. See¬ 
ing it, Eustace’s heart sank like a stone. 

“Did you—did you know her ?” he asked. 

Beneath the overhanging brows his eyes burned with a 
somber fire. 

“A great many years ago. Before her marriage, replied 
Monsignor Fane. 

Eustace felt that he was enveloped once more in the cold 
dark shadow that for so long had hung over Pendre. It had 
followed him, but now it seemed to be actual, tangible, a thing 
that chilled him and brought a cold sweat to his brow. 

He was just going to ask the priest some more questions, 
when Monsignor Fane rose and went across the room to speak 
to Mrs. Craven. 

The salotto was immense, with a high and vaulted roof that 
made it unusually lofty. Great porphyry pillars divided off 
part of it and in this smaller portion there was an open grate, 
where an immense fire of olive logs was burning. Even 


378 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


without this the radiators made the room comfortably warm. 
The walls were hung with delicate old tapestries, and there 
were console tables of purple-colored marble with gilt sup¬ 
ports heavily-carved, and wonderful mirrors above them. 
Curtains of old rose damask screened the windows, and the 
only things that struck a modern note were some comfortable 
sofas and large easy chairs, and the books and flowers with 
which Mrs. Dyrham loved to surround herself. 

Nella was sitting near her. But, seeing Eustace left alone 
rather abruptly in this way, she rose and went across the room 
to talk to him. 

“It was good of you to come at such short notice, but you 
see we’d only just found out you were in Rome.” 

“But I think it most awfully kind of Mrs. Dyrham to ask 
me. Do you know Monsignor Fane well?” 

“No, I’d never seen him before we arrived here in Novem¬ 
ber, but he has been very kind since we came, getting us an 
audience and all that. He gave me those tickets too for St. 
Peter’s this morning. You see, he used to know my mother 
many years ago, and they always corresponded. I like him, 
don’t you ?” 

“Yes,” said Eustace, “but I’m not sure that he likes me. 
He left me so suddenly just now when I told him who my 
mother was.” 

That abrupt action had wounded him. And it did not some¬ 
how seem in harmony with the priest’s almost diplomatic 
manner. He felt that in some way he must have made a dis¬ 
agreeable disclosure to him. What was there—what could 
there be—against his mother? Why had he felt so sensible 
of the shadow then that it seemed almost as if it had touched 
him like a dark cold curtain? . . . He shivered. 

“Oh, you mustn’t think that. We told him you were com¬ 
ing, and he said he should be so interested to meet you—he’d 
known people of the name of Wingrave many years ago.” 

Eustace looked slightly relieved, and yet the fear was still 
there. 

“Perhaps it was my imagination,” he said slowly. 

He tried to comfort himself with this thought. 


IN ROME 


379 


All of a sudden he felt that things were not going to be easy 
between himself and Nella. Even when he was a Catholic, 
and could ask her to be his wife. And as he looked across the 
room to where Monsignor Fane was sitting he wondered if he 
really knew of anything to his detriment—anything that might 
intervene between himself and Nella. 

“Let me come and fetch you to-morrow morning,” he said 
to her. “We might do some sight-seeing together. I hardly 
know my way about yet.” 

“I’ll ask Mrs. Dyrham. She may want me to go out with 
her.” 

But Mrs. Dyrham had no objection to offer; indeed she 
was secretly delighted, and said to Eustace in her pleasant 
bass voice: 

“It's been charming to find you here, Mr. Wingrave. You 
must come and see us whenever you like.” 

Eustace thanked her, made some excuse and departed. He 
felt that he could not remain there any longer; the presence 
of Monsignor Fane disturbed him. But when he had gone 
Mrs. Craven observed: “What a handsome boy! Of course 
the elder son was killed—I hear his parents have never got 
over it. I know the sister, Mrs. Hammond, quite well.” 

“They are neighbors of mine down in Wales,” said Mrs. 
Dyrham. “Lord Pendre has a beautiful property there. But 
I know them very slightly. They bought the Chittendens’ old 
place when it came into the market about a dozen years ago.” 

“New men and old acres—it’s the same everywhere,” 
languidly observed Mr. Carven, a very fair blase-looking 
young man who was considered quite abnormally clever. 

“Yes, and these were Catholic acres,” remarked Monsignor 
Fane. “One is always sorry to hear of a chapel being dis¬ 
mantled.” 

“Nella and I used to think that this young man had lean¬ 
ings,” said Mrs. Welby; “he was often seen at Mass in the 
little church at Llyn. I rather wondered at it myself—his 
father’s so dreadfully prejudiced.” 

“Really ? I didn’t know there were any people like that left 


380 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


alive/’ was Mr. Craven’s comment. “Everyone seems so 
monotonously tolerant in these days.” 

“Mr. Wingrave’s sister—Mrs. Martin Sedgwick—has be¬ 
come a Catholic—she was received quite lately. She was very 
ill, they thought she was going to die, and Martin Sedgwick 
insisted upon marrying her—it was quite a romance—” said 
Mrs. Craven, who had heard the story from Barbara. 

“Lord Pendre can’t have liked that,” said Mrs. Welby. 

“It would be a wonderful thing,” said Nella, speaking for 
the first time, “if Mr. Wingrave became a Catholic and in¬ 
herited Pendre, and had a chapel there again.” Her blue eyes 
shone. She was thinking of Eustace as she had seen him in 
St. Peter’s that day, kneeling reverently as the body of the 
dead Pope was borne past him. 

“I should think that would be extremely unlikely,” said 
Monsignor Fane dryly. 

“Lord Pendre is quite capable of cutting him off with a 
shilling if he does become a Catholic,” said Mrs. Craven. 

“My dear—he couldn’t possibly do anything so old-fashioned. 
No one could,” remonstrated her husband. 

Monsignor Fane looked at him attentively. 

“I am afraid prejudice against the Church is more common 
than you suppose. Every year quite a number of wills are 
published in which it distinctly says that any person who is a 
Roman Catholic or becomes one is to forfeit all the money 
that may be bequeathed to them.” 

Mr. Carven still looked unconvinced and remarked. 

“I really thought that kind of thing was as extinct as the 
dodo!” 


CHAPTER XX 


“Habemus Papam” 

1 

A LL the morning a dove had flown restlessly above the 
pointed roof of the Sistine Chapel, whose brown brick 
wall joined St. Peter’s to the Vatican Palace. A small chim¬ 
ney placed at a slightly crooked angle showed darkly against 
the space of brown brick, its top thrust against the sky. 
Thousands of eyes in the great teeming Piazza below were 
fastened upon that chimney, from which the sfumata was 
presently destined to appear. 

Overhead the sky was of a pure blue and the dove’s wings 
made a sudden flash of silver against it as it flew and circled 
above the roof. To many it was emblematic, a symbol of that 
Holy Spirit Who had once been seen by mortal eyes in the 
semblance of a dove, and Who was now guiding the cardinals 
assembled in conclave to a right choice. 

The wide piazza with its immense twin colonnades,, its 
glancing fountains, its great obelisk within whose summit a 
fragment of the True Cross was enclosed, was filled from end 
to end with a crowd of expectant persons of all nations, races, 
and languages. 

What was going on within those marble walls? . Rumor 
was rife, as it always is in Rome, but only one thing was 
certain—that nothing of what was passing there could be 
known. The Vatican was too closely guarded for any chance 
intelligence to escape. 

A little after noon a puff of dark smoke shot up from the 
chimney and presently vanished in the blue sky above. An 

381 


382 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


audible murmur of disappointment went up from the vast 
crowd. No decision this morning. The throng of people 
vanished, even as the smoke had evaporated,—automobiles, 
taxis, trams and carriages swept them from the scene. In 
less than a quarter of an hour the Piazza was emptied. 

For four days the same scene was enacted. Sunday came, a 
brilliant day of blue skies, warm sunshine, and soft airs— 
a May morning in February. The piazza in the afternoon had 
almost the aspect of a fair such as is held on many great festas 
in Italy. Whole families encamped there for the day, fathers, 
mothers, children, babies-in-arms. Great clusters of balloon 
balls that looked like mammoth bunches of multi-colored 
grapes, made patches of kaleidoscopic hue amid the surging 
throng. Surely to-day—a day so propitious for an august 
event such as the election of a new Pope—the cardinals in 
conclave would arrive at some decision. After hours of wait¬ 
ing, the smoke suddenly ascended, perversely black in hue; 
it lingered a little longer than usual before it evaporated into 
the blue ether. Once more the disappointed crowds returned 
home. Many of the Roman workmen and artisans would be 
unable to return on the morrow. And mingled with their 
disappointment there was a little fear. Long delay in the 
election of a Pope was of ill-omen, signifying Divine dis¬ 
pleasure. 

Each day Eustace met Nella Tresham close to the great 
statue of St. Peter at the foot of the steps. It was there that 
they had agreed to wait for each other. Mrs. Dyrham was 
sitting somewhere in her car, and Mrs. Welby was with her. 
They preferred to watch in comfort instead of standing about 
or sitting upon newspapers on the stone steps, with the almost 
inevitable certainty of catching cold. But Nella was free to 
wander wherever she would, and if she wandered in the com¬ 
pany of young Wingrave so much the better, from Mrs. Dyr- 
ham’s point of view. 

The young man was evidently “taken” with Nella. And it 
would be a splendid thing for the girl. She was very pretty 
and almost penniless and she would be very lucky to “catch” 
young Wingrave. Mrs. Dyrham was inclined to Mr. Craven’s 


“HABEMUS PAP AM’ 


383 


opinion, that in these days fathers couldn’t really be so old- 
fashioned and prejudiced and ridiculous as to cut their only 
sons off with a shilling or any other paltry sum just because 
they had become Catholics. 

She was devoted to Nella, and longed to see her happily 
and prosperously married. She even thought she might give 
her a little dot out of her own superfluous wealth. Just to 
supplement her tiny income. And she liked the look of young 
Wingrave—he had such nice eyes! . . . She could under¬ 
stand any girl falling in love with him, even if he hadn’t been 
heir to a title, a handsome property, and great wealth. 

Monday morning dawned grey and hopelessly wet. Nella 
appeared in Mrs. Welby’s room wearing a black cloth coat 
and a small black hat which did its best to conceal the pretty 
“goldfish” curls. 

“Oh, you’re not going to walk in this weather? You’d 
much better wait and go with us in the car,” Mrs. Welby 
expostulated. 

“No, darling—I’m going with Mr. Wingrave. Why, it 
might be to-day, and you always get down there so late! 
And then he’s just telephoned to say he’ll fetch me in a taxi, 
as the weather’s so bad.” 

“I wonder,” observed Mrs. Welby, “whether it’s quite wise 
for you to see so much of Mr. Wingrave!” 

Nella sat down on the sofa and regarded her with humorous 
expression in her dancing blue eyes. 

“You dear old prude—you ought to have lived in the 
golden days of Queen Victoria!” 

“Well, I did,” confessed Mrs. Welby; “I know it sounds 
antediluvian to you young things, but it wasn’t really so bad 
as you think. We had our pleasures.” 

“I’m sure you had. You ate and drank, and were married 
and given in marriage and all the rest of it. . . . I must be 
going down. I feel somehow as if the sfumata would be 

white to-day!” 

She danced toward the door. 

“Nella—do be serious. I’m certain they’ll never let their 
son marry a Catholic.” 


384 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


“But if he's one himself?" 

“Only, he isn’t.” 

“I’m sure, though, he’s going to be. If he wants to be he 
will, and if he wants to marry me—” She stopped abruptly, 
the sentence was leading her into awkward unsuspected paths. 

Mrs. Welby lifted her dark brows. 

“You mean he’ll do that too ?” she inquired ironically. 

“Well, we’re not thinking of marriage just yet, so don’t let 
that disturb you.” 

“He is falling in love with you, though. I don’t like to 
accuse you of encouraging him, but—” 

“Of course I’m encouraging him! I think it would be 
rather nice to have him just the least little bit in love with me! 
No one ever has been, you know, although you did get silly 
and nonsensical ideas into your head once about Ernest 
Soames ! I can prove you in the wrong there, for he proposed 
to Vicky Wingrave last summer, and Lord Pendre tried to 
force her to marry him! So there!” 

“Well, don’t let yourself fall in love with Mr. Wingrave, 
for I’m sure they’ll never let him marry you!” 

Nella came a little nearer; her face was all aglow, and her 
blue eyes were shining like sapphires. 

“Why shouldn’t I let myself fall in love with him? Why 
that would be the most thrilling thing of all!” 

Mrs. Welby was a trifle old-fashioned. People fell in love 
—she had only succeeded in doing so very moderately herself 
—became engaged with the approval and sanction of their 
respective parents, and finally after an interval were married. 
But to fall in love with a man whose parents were bound to 
oppose the marriage, surely spelt disaster. In her opinion 
Nella was doing a very foolish thing in being seen so con¬ 
stantly alone in the company of young Wingrave, and she 
could not understand why Mrs. Dyrham should encourage it 
in the way she did. 

Eustace was something of a puzzle to her. When she was 
with him she was conscious of his hidden strength and 
obstinacy. His present mode of life too was rather ambigu¬ 
ous. Here he was alone in Rome, living austerely rather than 


“HABEMUS PAPAM” 385 

extravagantly, more like a poor man’s son than the only son 
of a very rich man, and she had come to the conclusion that 
he had probably already quarreled with his father about his 
resolve to become a Catholic. He seemed to know no one, to 
go to no parties. There were certain houses in Rome where 
the much diminished British Colony did still meet and fore¬ 
gather, and it would have been a very simple matter for a 
young man in his position to obtain an introduction to them. 
But Eustace was never seen at any of them. He liked to loaf 
about with Nella, and Mrs. Welby was beginning to think that 
they were neither of them spending their time quite profitably. 

Nella bent down and kissed her. 

“You mustn’t tell anyone, but now I come to consider it 
I’m not sure that I’m not just the least little bit in love with 
him! He is such a dear, isn’t he ? I keep on thinking how 
much Mother would have liked him! I must be a perfect 
fool, because I really believe it began that first time on Moth 
Hill. I know I liked his eyes, and that queer smile he gave. 
And that wonderful little sister of his with her stormy, pas¬ 
sionate face, looking like a naughty child who’s just been pun¬ 
ished. I thought them both frightfully attractive! I wanted 
to take Vicky in my arms there and then, and kiss and comfort 
her! I’m so glad she’s married and to that nice Martin 
Sedgwick we used to see driving out with her and Lady 
Pendre.” 

With this confession Nella went out of the room. She ran 
down three flights of marble stairs, and in the hall below en¬ 
countered Eustace. 

“I say—you’re sure it’s not too wet ?” 

She made a charming little grimace. 

“You’re as bad as Mrs. Welby. Do you think I’m made of 
sugar ?” 

“Somehow I feel it’ll be to-day.” 

“I’ve felt that every day.” 

2 

Outside, the taxi was waiting; they both got in and drove 
off to the piazza. Already an immense crowd had assembled 


386 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


there, despite the pouring rain. The place looked black, with 
the sea of umbrellas. 

Above the Sistine chapel the dove was still flying; its white 
wings flashing against the grey sky. 

The fountains were playing vigorously, and the wind drove 
the spray across the piazza. They seemed to add to the mel¬ 
ancholy of the scene, to emphasise the steadily falling rain. 

At twenty minutes to twelve a puff of smoke issued from 
the fateful chimney. This time it was white, filmy, coming 
and going like a little cloud. It ascended straight into the 
grey wet atmosphere and vanished abruptly. A thrill ran 
through the crowd, like an electric current. There was a cry 
of £ fatto il Papa! S, fatto il Papa! . . . 

One after the other the names of cardinals who were papa- 
bile were suggested. The wildest rumors were afloat. Sud¬ 
denly Eustace and Nella saw Monsignor Fane advancing to¬ 
ward them. His face wore a look of strange excitement, 
almost of emotion. 

“It’s Cardinal Ratti,” he said. “And they say he’s coming 
out!” 

His eyes were aglow. It was as if a burden of suspense too 
heavy to be borne had suddenly been removed. 

Cardinal Ratti—in a few minutes the name had passed from 
mouth to mouth; not a soul in the crowd but had heard it. 
Already the telephones were at work, messengers were being 
despatched in all directions, in cars and on motorcycles. A 
few minutes more and the news would be flashed to the utter¬ 
most ends of the earth. . . . 

But the majority of those present were occupied with the 
possibility of seeing the new Pope. Would he come out? It 
was said that his first public act would be to stand upon the 
loggia and bless the assembled multitude. No Holy Father had 
been seen in public since the happenings of 1870. There were 
old men and women present who could recall the last appear¬ 
ance of Pius IX on that loggia. 

The central window of the Hall of Benediction was opened, 
amid the delirious cries of the crowd. The usual formula was 
observed. A white carpet, with a red border and with the 


“HABEMUS PAPAM” 38 7 

Papal Arms finely woven upon the center, was flung over the 
stone balcony. A procession headed by a priest carrying a 
great gold cross detached itself from the inner gloom. Then 
a Cardinal came forward, and across the death-like hush that 
prevailed in the piazza his words Habemus Papam sounded 
clear and audible. Then the name, Achille Ratti, Cardinal 
Archbishop of Milan—a name familiar to many of those 
present, since at one time the great scholar Monsignor Ratti 
had been the chief librarian at the Vatican. Then the an¬ 
nouncement that he had taken the name of Pius XI was re¬ 
ceived with a fresh outburst of frenzied enthusiasm and joy. 

Still the rain poured pitilessly upon the thronging crowds. 
But it fell unheeded. The tense, expectant excitement in¬ 
creased, and was even greater than when the sfumata had an¬ 
nounced that the scrutiny had at last been crowned with 
success. Twenty minutes passed. Soldiers were seen entering 
the basilica—clearing it of all who had remained there think¬ 
ing that the blessing would as usual be given within. The 
great gates clashed to. This signified beyond a doubt that the 
Blessing of the new Pope would be given from the loggia 
for the first time for more than fifty years. 

At last amid cries and shouts of joy the Holy Father ap¬ 
peared, wearing the white papal soutane and cape of crimson 
velvet with ermine border. This one, just raised to the most 
august office in the world, and upon whom the dread gift of 
infallibility had fallen, advanced to the front of the balcony 
and held out both his arms with a magnificent sweeping 
gesture as if he would fain have taken to his heart not only 
the dense thronging multitude that greeted him now, but all 
Italy, and the whole world that lay beyond Italy, for were not 
the sheep of his pasture to be found in the remotest corners 
of the earth? 

There was not a dry eye in the whole piazza. Many people 
sobbed. Cries of Ewiva il Papa! resounded, flung from thou¬ 
sands of throats. A wave of the hand from the Cardinal im¬ 
posed silence. A book was held up in front of the Holy 
Father. He intoned the prayers in a strong and clear voice, 
audible to all. 


388 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Sancti Apostoli Petrus et Paulus de quorum potestate et 
auctoritate confidimus, ipsi intercedant pro nobis ad Dominum. 

Precibus et meritis Beatae Marise semper Virginis, beati 
Michaelis Archangeli, Beati Joannis Baptistae, et Sanctorum 
Apostolorum Petri et Pauli et omnium Sanctorum, 

Misereatur vestri omnipotens Deus et dimissis peccatis 
vestris perducat vos Jesus Christus ad vitam aeternam. 

Indulgentiam, absolutionem et remissionem omnium pecca- 
torum vestrorum, spatium verse et fructuosae pcenitentitiae, 
cor semper poenitens et emendationem vitae, gratiam et con- 
solationem Sancti Spiritus et finalem perseverantiam in bonis 
operibus, tribuat vobis omnipotens et misericors Dominus, 

Et benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris et Filii et Spiritus 
Sancti, descendat super vos et maneat semper . . . 

Amen. ... At the end of each prayer the response rose, 
a perfect tumult of sound, full of a fierce and passionate 
fervor. The people knelt down in pools of water to receive 
that unique and august blessing and absolution. And again 
in that significant gesture as the uplifted hand made the sign 
of the Cross upon that kneeling, praying multitude, it was 
noticed that there was something wide and all-embracing and 
majestic. Fides intrepida .... many who were present re¬ 
called that in ancient prophecy this name had been bestowed 
upon the new Pontiff. 

The hand was raised in renewed blessing. It was almost as 
if the Holy Father were reluctant to turn away. . . . 

It was not until the Pope had vanished, amid sounding 
shouts of “Evviva il Papa! Ewiva il Papa!” that Eustace 
seemed to remember Nella’s presence. All this time, even 
while kneeling by her side to receive the blessing, he had not 
consciously thought of her. Now he turned to her and saw 
that she was unusually pale, and that the tears were quivering 
on her long lashes. 

“Shall we go now ?” he said. 

A chilly wind had arisen, flinging the spray from the foun¬ 
tains across the piazza. He felt that the scene in which they 
had just participated had created a new and strange intimacy 
between them. 

Nella had been thinking of Eustace, praying for Eustace. 
She exclaimed impulsively: “Don’t you see how wonderful it 
is? You mustn’t remain outside!” 


"HABEMUS PAP AM” 389 

She looked at him as she spoke. Surely he must have felt 
some emotion, some sense of fervor and loyalty. 

“I’ve been wanting to tell you,” he answered, “I’m to be 
received in a few days. I was only waiting until the Con¬ 
clave was over. I’ve been under instruction for several 
months.” 

They drove away in silence. As they crossed the bridge of 
Sant’ Angelo they could see the river, brown and turbulent and 
swollen with the recent rains, pouring under the arches. 
Beyond, the Janiculum was faintly green where the spring 
grass was beginning to shoot up. The grey sky had broken a 
little, displaying pools of cold pure blue. 

The words of the Blessing still echoed in Eustace’ ears. He 
thought he could never forget that scene in any of its details 
—the grey beating rain, the thronging fervent crowd, and 
then the white clad figure standing there raising his right arm 
in blessing while his voice intoned the words clearly and 
audibly. Pius XI, upon whom the threefold charge first be¬ 
stowed upon St. Peter had now fallen, the wearer of the 
Triple Crown, the Keeper of the Keys, the Successor of the 
Galilean Fisherman. . . . 

3 

When Eustace told Nella of his forthcoming reception into 
the Church she said nothing; a lump rose in her throat, and 
she knew that no words of hers could evd* express her joy. 
She had hoped for it ever since she had first seen him kneeling 
at Mass in the church at Llyn. Her mother had prayed for it. 
She had really never doubted the issue; she was only perhaps 
surprised to hear that it was already settled, that he had taken 
all the needful preliminary steps. 

He drove with her to Via Sistina, leaving her there, and 
refusing to come in, although the porter informed them that 
Mrs. Dyrham had already returned. 

“May I fetch you for a walk this afternoon?” he asked, 
almost timidly. “We might go on the Pincio . . . .” 

His dark eyes held something of entreaty. Forgetful of the 


390 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


wise and prudent advice of Mrs. Welby Nella answered, “Yes 
—that’ll be very nice. Come about three, and you might come 
back to tea with us? I’m sure Mrs. Dyrham would be 
delighted.” 

Did she too feel that that walk might prove an eventful one 
for them both ? She seemed so unconscious of his love! He 
walked away moodily. Why should she consent to marry 
him? She knew him so little. With him love had been a 
spontaneous thing, springing up in his heart at their first 
meeting. But he could not be such a coxcomb as to suppose 
that she could in any way have responded. 

Mrs. Dyrham had no objections to offer to the proposed 
expedition. On the whole, she was pleased to think that the 
affair was shaping so promisingly. Young people in these 
days liked to be left alone to amuse each other. Besides, she 
had Mrs. Welby to fall back upon for companionship. 

“And of course bring him back to tea,” she added, “we may 
be a little late, as I’m going to drive along the Via Appia.” 

The afternoon was not propitious. Rain fell from time to 
time, and a chilly wind was blowing. They walked briskly up 
the hill to the Pincio and then across the Borghese Gardens to 
the Valle Giulia, with its great neo-classic buildings, its beauti¬ 
ful ancient Villa where once Pope Julius III had sojourned. 

“Let’s go into the Museum—I’ve never seen it,” said 
Eustace. 

“Oh, you ought to see the Etruscan Apollo with its weird 
terrifying eyes,” answered Nella. 

The strange terra-cotta figure of the Apollo fashioned in 
the fifth or sixth century B. C. was duly examined; they 
lingered in front of it, half hypnotized and half fascinated by 
its recondite beauty, the prominent fierce eyes, the enigmatic 
smile, the long snake-like tresses of hair that gave it an almost 
Medusa-like aspect. They passed through rooms filled with 
endless Etruscan vases of marvelously new beauty, the colors 
upon them fresh and glowing as if painted yesterday. Then 
presently they turned back, away from this harvest of ancient 
burial places, and went out into the exquisite Renaissance 
garden, where in sunny spots a few snowdrops and narcissi 


"HABEMUS PAPAM” 


391 


were visible. It was quite deserted, and they wandered 
through the enclosed spaces guarded by high white walls that 
in summer were festooned with roses. 

The gurgle of falling water—such a characteristic sound in 
Roman gardens, that are incomplete without a fountain—the 
pale illumination of the winter sunlight, the dark foliage of 
palm and ilex, the neat box borders and hedges, the white 
gleaming statues, combined to make the scene a novel and 
delicious one to them both. They rested at last upon some 
brick steps behind a screen of feathery bamboos. And sud¬ 
denly it seemed quite natural to Eustace to turn to her and say: 

“I love you, Nella. Will you marry me?” The look in his 
eyes was pleading, almost wistful. “Tm afraid I shan’t have 
much to offer you when I’m a Catholic.” 

She smiled at him. “Of course I’ll marry you,” she said. “I 
shouldn’t care if you hadn’t a farthing in the world!” 

There was a joyous look in her eyes, just as if his words 
had informed her with something of the almost terrifying 
happiness he himself was experiencing. Perhaps, after all, 
she had known, ever since their meeting on Moth Hill, that 
some day this would happen. Only, they could neither of them 
have pictured it as happening here in this wonderful old 
pleasaunce that had belonged to a Pope nearly four hundred 
years ago. 

But perhaps, too, she had been waiting for him to speak, 
knowing that he must tell her soon that he loved her. 

He put out his hand and took hers, holding it. The touch 
thrilled her. It was more wonderful even than she had sup¬ 
posed, to be loved by Eustace Wingrave. 

“Do you remember that day on Moth Hill? It was nearly 
a year ago. I was with Vicky. . .” 

“But of course I do! I thought you were both the most 
wonderful people I’d seen. And I did envy you so—for having 
each other.” 

“I’ve loved you always, from that day,” Eustace said 
doggedly. The words threatened to choke him. He wanted to 
cry for joy. 

“I’m so glad. Because it began then with me too.” 


392 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


They sat there for a little in silence, feeling eager and young 
and simple again, with no tantalizing secret between them. 
Nothing now to draw them apart, separate them. They could 
look each other frankly in the eyes. Love created its own 
simple intimacy. They had the feeling now that they had 
always in some sense belonged to one another. 

“Darling . . . darling . . murmured Eustace. 

Beneath his dark penthouse brows the eyes were glimmer¬ 
ing like subdued lamps. 

And Nella was thinking: “I must tell Mrs. Welby how 
fearfully thrilling it is to have him in love with me.” She 
looked at him proudly. Such a young upright vigorous figure, 
such a young eager handsome face, full of fire and poetry and 
intelligence. There was nothing about him that she felt she 
could ever wish to change. He was strangely perfect. 

“But I feel,” she said suddenly, “that you ought to marry 
a girl with heaps and heaps of money. Not a pauper like 
myself.” 

“I hate money!” he protested briefly. “And anyhow I can 
work—we shan’t starve. I should like to have had more to 
give you, though.” 

A vision of Pendre, lying in its own beautiful woods, over¬ 
looking the blue line of the Irish Sea, rose up before him then, 
and it made his heart ache as never before. For he wanted, 
more than ever now, to have a Catholic chapel there again, 
with the lamp burning night and day before the Blessed 
Sacrament. The light that would cause the shadow on the 
house to melt away and never darken the old walls again— 
that nameless, enigmatic, malevolent shadow that had taken 
something of joy from his own youth and Vicky’s. Would 
Pendre ever be his ? Would his father ever forgive him for 
becoming a Catholic, for marrying a Catholic ? Lord Pendre 
had never cared for him enough to pardon him for such 
transgressions as those. Perhaps he would leave it all to 
Barabra and her boy. Philip and Barbara—those were the 
two who had grown up in apparent oblivion of the shadow, 
and upon whom all his love had been lavishly spent. They 
had enjoyed the material and temporal gifts that life had 


“HABEMUS PAP AM” 393 

offered them, and whatever Philip might have felt during those 
last years of war, Barbara at least had assuredly never been 
assailed by any spiritual cravings and desires. She was 
frankly happy; she had everything she wanted, an adoring 
husband, a handsome little son, money, beautiful clothes and 
jewels, luxurious motor-cars. She despised Eustace and Vicky 
for not being perfectly contented with the things that so amply 
satisfied her own needs. 

“You see, I only wanted to have Pendre in the future be¬ 
cause of having a chapel there, just as there used to be/’ he 
explained simply. “And wherever we are we might get per¬ 
mission to have one if we stripped life of all its horrible super¬ 
fluities and possessions.” 

She laughed. “You’ve got the Franciscan spirit!” 

“I hate possessions. They rob you of light and air and 
peace. One needs space and freedom.” 

She smiled at him in her grave wise way. 

“You could never have been anything but a Catholic. It 
couldn’t have passed you by.” 

“But it might so easily. . . When I first came home I 
told my mother I wanted to find out more about God—about 
Our Blessed Lord. You see, we’d been brought up practically 
without religion. But I suppose even then I was thinking sub¬ 
consciously of the Catholic Church.” 

He told her the little history of the crucifix he always wore. 

“But aren’t there any Catholics in your family? Among 
your ancestors?” 

“None that I know of. But Nella—” he stopped, realizing 
suddenly with almost a shock how little she knew of him, his 
life, and its innumerable problems, complications and pre¬ 
occupations. “I’ve thought sometimes,” he proceeded more 
cautiously, “that my mother knows a good deal about it. . .” 

Having broken the ice, he told her of the almost complete 
absence of religion in his own childhood, of his mother’s im¬ 
penetrable inexplicable silence on the subject, and of how 
sometimes in approaching her he had felt the shadow about 
them deepen till he seemed almost to lose himself in a sea of 
darkness. 


394 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Nella, like most very young girls with a love of pretty things 
and a severely restricted dress-allowance, had often desired to 
possess money—lots of it—it had been hateful not being able 
always to buy everything her darling mother had needed— 
she had longed too for just a touch of comfort and luxury 
in her home. But now she felt that with all its rigor of 
poverty, its compulsory austerity, its lack of soft-living, her 
childhood had yet never been starved as Eustace’ had been. It 
had been filled to the brim with spiritual wealth and ideals. Her 
mother had taught her to pray as soon as she could speak; and 
at five years old she was so advanced in spiritual knowledge 
that she had been permitted to avail herself of Pius X’s then 
recent decree that little children as soon as they could under¬ 
stand Whom they were receiving, should be admitted to the 
mysteries of Holy Communion. She could therefore hardly 
remember the time when this had not been the central act of 
her daily life, but she had never so profoundly envisaged its 
spiritual importance till she heard Eustace speak thus of his 
own starved and arid childhood. 

“Do you think your mother will mind your becoming a 
Catholic ?” she asked. 

“I’m quite sure she won’t. She seemed glad about Vicky,” 
he answered. 

Nella’s fingers tightened about his own. A great fear 
came over her. 

“But you don’t think she was ever one herself, do you, 
Eustace ?” 

“I can’t tell you.” The suggestion was by no means new to 
him, and yet to hear it put thus frankly into words made him 
shudder as if with a sudden sense of chill. 

He loved his mother with a tender, reverent, worshiping 
love; he set her very high; she seemed to him but little lower 
than the saints. To think of her therefore as a soul astray 
and wandering stabbed him to the heart. 

“Perhaps you could find out. She may tell you now—” 

His face was white and agitated. “Oh, but can’t you see? 
If she’s an apostate I’d rather not know. It would be too 
fearful. . .” 


“HABEMUS PAP AM” 395 

She said gently: “Our Lord’s often most awfully kind and 
generous to converts, as if He wanted to make their first steps 
easy, until they’re more capable of bearing big trials for Him. 
So perhaps—if your first prayers as a Catholic were for 
her—” 

“But you don’t know her—she’s a saint—she couldn’t have 
done anything to cut herself adrift!” he expostulated, almost 
with passion. “There couldn’t have been anything.” 

Even to put such a possibility into words was more than he 
could bear, it wounded alike his love and loyalty. 

“It might have been just marrying a man who refused to let 
her practise her religion or bring her children up as Catholics,” 
said Nella, calm and clear-sighted. 

It might have been that certainly, though he was loth to 
admit it. His mother—with all her perfection of soul, her love¬ 
liness of face! And yet this hypothesis that she had once been 
a Catholic would certainly explain much that was ambiguous 
in her. And above all things it would explain the shadow that 
brooded so darkly, so immutably, over Pendre. With a 
pang of mingled fear and dismay he recalled Vicky’s words: 
r 7 feel as if God were against us. What can we have done 
to offend Him? What can any of us have done? . . 

He clung to Nella’s hand; he wanted, as a child wants, some 
warm and reassuring human contact in the face of these 
nebulous, intangible, yet soul-shaking fears. 

“You see, from all you tell me, I feel there must have been 
—something,” said Nella gently. 

They were quite alone. He moved a little closer to her and 
put his arms about her. They kissed each other. Afterward 
it always seemed to him as if there had been more terror 
than joy in that first kiss; they were both sitting, enveloped 
in the shadow. . . . 


CHAPTER XXI 


Light on the Shadow 

1 

nPHEY agreed that no one should be told of the engage¬ 
ment until Eustace had been received into the Church. 
This quiet little ceremony took place a few days later at an 
early hour in the crypt of St. Peter's, at an altar not far from 
the tomb of Pius X. A young Italian friend of the Cardinal’s 
acted as sponsor, and Nella was the only other person present. 

# Eustace subsequently made his First Communion, kneeling 
side by side with Nella. From beginning to end the ceremony 
was touching in its complete simplicity. 

On her return to Via Sistina that morning Nella lost no time 
in informing Mrs. Welby of her engagement. They had lived 
together for so many years that their relationship was neces¬ 
sarily a very intimate one. Indeed, since Mrs. Tresham’s 
death, Mrs. Welby had almost assumed a kind of guardianship 
over the girl, and it was therefore due to her that she should 
hear the news as soon as possible. 

She had been expecting some communication of the kind. 
The young people had spent long days together, sight-seeing 
in various parts of Rome, and motoring about the Campagna. 
Nella was obviously enjoying herself very much indeed; she 
looked better and brighter than she had done since her 
mother s death. Her interest in young Wingrave was 
evidently deepening rapidly, perhaps into a sentiment at once 
more profound and more enduring. 

But Mrs. Welby knew very little of the young man, and the 
affair was beginning to cause her a certain anxiety. Like all 
the young folk of the present day Nella was wilful, and as 

396 


LIGHT ON THE SHADOW 


39 7 


there was no one who could legitimately control her, she was 
placed in a position where she could do practically as she 
pleased. Moreover, she possessed, as she knew, the whole¬ 
hearted support of Mrs. Dyrham in the present matter. 

And now Nella had come, all rosy and glowing, from an 
early expedition to hear Mass in the crypt of St. Peter’s, to 
inform her that she was engaged to Eustace Wingrave—they 
had been already engaged for more than a week—and she 
was feeling happier than she had believed it possible to be. 

There was really nothing to do but to kiss and congratulate 
her, and express hopes for her continued happiness. Then 
Mrs. Dyrham came in and had to be told. She kissed Nella, 
and said in her bass voice: 

“Well, my dear child, I’m very glad indeed you’ve pulled 
it off. I think you’re a lucky little girl!” 

But Mrs. Welby had arrived at those mature, unenthusias- 
tic years when she was able to take no one on trust. Not even 
Eustace, much as she liked him. There was a superficial 
charm about him which attracted her, and made her under¬ 
stand perfectly why Nella should have so readily acceded to his 
desire for an immediate engagement. His prospects were 
not very bright, for though he was heir to his father’s title 
there was every likelihood of his being disinherited on account 
of his change of faith. 

Nella was very much in love, not sentimentally but with a 
deep sober earnestness that astonished Mrs. Welby, who was 
still a little inclined to regard her as an irresponsible child. 

Still, it was necessary that Eustace should be examined and 
inspected before Mrs. Welby felt that she could trust her 
darling to him, and who should fulfill this graceless task more 
adroitly than their old friend, Monsignor Fane? 

She had a high opinion of his judgment. He was indulgent 
and charitable, and possessed a knowledge of the world per¬ 
haps greater than that of the majority of ecclesiastics. 

Mrs. Welby, on her side, was extremely desirous of shifting 
the responsibility of Nella’s marriage upon shoulders more 
capable of supporting it than her own. It was useless, as she 
soon discovered, to appeal to Mrs. Dyrham, who regarded the 


398 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


affair solely from a worldly point of view, and considered it 
quite extraordinarily lucky that Nella should have won the 
love of Lord Pendre’s only son and heir. 

Eustace and Nella, in the simple enjoyment of each other's 
society during those radiant Roman days of early spring, had 
no knowledge of these designs upon their peace, nor of the 
anxiety that was perturbing at least one of their elders. They 
were very happy, very much in love, and quite undisturbed 
by any preoccupation as to their own future. 

2 

Eustace was sitting alone in his room at the hotel reading 
one evening when Monsignor Fane was announced. The priest 
was ushered in with that abruptness which is so disconcerting 
in foreign hotels, when the utterance of a name—often 
grievously mutilated—is speedily followed by the visitor 
himself. 

His heart sank when he saw the dark aquiline face above 
the narrow rim of purple that designated the monsignore’s 
rank. But he rose and greeted him in his pleasant unem¬ 
barrassed fashion, a kind of shy eagerness suffusing his face. 

He did not know why he was secretly afraid of Monsignor 
Fane. But always he felt that he knew something more of 
his parents than he himself knew. Something that was per¬ 
haps to their detriment. He had not forgotten that keen, quick 
questioning to which he had been subjected on the night of 
Mrs. Dyrham’s dinner-party. Nor had he forgotten his own 
chagrin when the priest rose and abruptly left his side soon 
after ascertaining his mother’s name. 

Monsignor Fane took the proffered hand. 

“I came to congratulate you, Mr. Wingrave,” he said, in 
his soft pleasant voice. “Mrs. Welby has told me of your 
engagement to Miss Tresham. May God bless you both! I 
am glad to think she is to marry a Catholic.” 

“Pm a very new convert at present,” answered Eustace, 
smiling. 

He was relieved to think that the priest had come as a 
friend, that he approved of the engagement. He pushed a 


LIGHT ON THE SHADOW 399 

box of cigarettes toward him, and they sat down and smoked 
for a few minutes in silence. 

He became aware then that Monsignor Fane had come to 
say something to him quite apart from the subject of his 
marriage, and that he was experiencing a certain difficulty 
in beginning. 

Eustace sat there in silence. All around him it seemed 
that the shadow drooped and darkened. He felt its presence 
almost as keenly as he had done at Pendre. And fantastically 
he wondered whether Monsignor Fane was also aware of it. 
His dark face was so cold and stern, yet full of purpose and 
determination. One could see that he was not a man to shrink 
from any task, however hard and painful, which he considered 
it his duty to perform. 

The blind was drawn up, and they could see the Roman sky, 
almost black and pierced by myriads of brilliant and frosty 
stars. Some roofs and chimneys were darkly etched against 
it in masses of blotted shadow. They could hear the faint 
stir of traffic far below them, the sharp scraping sound of a 
passing tram, the shrill hoot of a motor-horn. Just the 
familiar normal sounds of a great city. 

“I imagine,” said Monsignor Fane at last, “that you are 
quite ignorant of your mother’s history before her marriage ?” 

“Not quite ignorant, but she never talks about it, and I 
hardly know any details.” 

“Do you wish to know what I can tell you ? I think that you 
might be able to help her.” 

“Don’t tell me anything against her!” exclaimed Eustace, 
almost with passion. 

A cold sick fear clutched his heart. Oh, he was on the brink 
now of exact knowledge, and he would want all his strength 
to bear it! Almost, he felt as if he were awaiting a doctor’s 
decision, aware that he was suffering from some dreadful 
malady that could only be alleviated by a hideous surgical 
operation. The fear he felt made him at once shiver and 
burn, as if menthol had been applied to his heart. 

All the time, he was aware that Monsignor Fane’s dark 


400 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


piercing eyes were fixed upon him with an expression of com¬ 
passion, almost of tenderness. 

“I should never have offered to tell you unless you had be¬ 
come a Catholic. But that makes it almost necessary. I shall 
not be violating any confidence—the story was pretty well 
known here nearly thirty years ago.” 

Eustace maintained a rigid silence. No, he would not help 
him. He set his teeth, as if he were indeed awaiting the touch 
of the cold knife .... 

“Is she happy?” 

“I don’t think we are any of us what you could call happy. 
My sister and I have found happiness in other paths. Till 
now we’ve never known it.” 

“You have an apostolate before you,” said the priest, 
steadily, fixing his eyes upon him. “It is your duty to try to 
bring your mother back to the Faith.” 

“Back to the Faith!” 

“She was a practising Catholic—very good and devout—up 
till the time of her marriage.” 

Eustace felt now, that he had always known it. Nothing 
else and certainly nothing less could have accounted for that 
complete academical knowledge she had displayed at the time 
of Vicky’s illness, coupled with her shrinking from any 
participation in the practical side of her daughter’s conversion. 
But what had made her turn abruptly away? Was it because 
of her love for his father, who refused perhaps to permit her 
to practise the religion that until then had been dear to her ? 
No—the reason must surely lie more deeply rooted than that. 
There must be something more, and perhaps he would have 
to hear it now. For his mother’s sake. This was to be his first 
work as a Catholic. He began to see his conversion in a new 
light. The thought that he could help her braced him. And 
he remembered the times when he had believed her to be on 
the brink of some momentous confession. That reassured him. 
It would be in no way disloyal for him to listen to Monsignor 
Fane now. . . . 

“She gave up her Faith in order to marry your father,” said 
the priest, quietly. “I knew her then as Miss Kelsey. She 


LIGHT ON THE SHADOW 401 

wasn’t my penitent, but I was called in and asked to try to 
remonstrate with her—to restrain her.” 

Eustace leaned his elbows on the table, and hid his face in 
his hands. He told himself that subconsciously he had always 
known this thing-. Ever since that day, at any rate, when she 
had caught his crucifix in her hands and kissed the Nailed 
Feet. 

“Why was it necessary for her to give up her Faith? 
Wouldn’t my father make the promises?” 

“He wasn’t free to marry her in the Catholic Church.” 

“Not free?” 

“His first wife, whom he had divorced as a very young man, 
was still alive.” 

“I didn’t know that he’d been married before,” said Eustace. 

“Very few people seem to have known anything of it. There 
were no children. But according to Catholic law he was not 
free to marry your mother.” 

“She has been such a saint,” said Eustace, brokenly. 

Again he hid his face in the cup of his hands. Something 
like a sob escaped him. He was enveloped now in the thick 
dark shadow that for so many years had hung over Pendre. 
And it was his mother’s fault, his mother’s doing. Oh, how 
he must have pierced her to the heart when he told her Vicky’s 
words: “What can we have done to offend Him ? What can 
any of us have done?” 

“She was so very young. Only eighteen,” he said at last. 

Monsignor Fane’s eyes rested upon him pityingly. There 
were many things he could not tell him, but the bare facts of 
the story had been no secret at the time, and he was betraying 
no confidence in relating them to Eustace. But he remembered 
as if it were yesterday, how he himself as a priest, then in his 
middle thirties, had fought for the soul of Giselda Kelsey. 
And at one moment it had seemed as if success had crowned 
his efforts. She had left Rome and gone secretly to Anzio, 
full of determination to flee from temptation and never to see 
Hugo Wingrave again. But the sudden illness of her father, 
then almost at the end of his resources, had summoned her 
back to Rome. When she arrived, the two men were together. 


402 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


For her to see Hugo was to fall utterly under the spell of his 
dominating influence. She was like a hypnotized bird. His 
rough masterful ways, his brutal strength, his dark formidable 
face, exercised a kind of unwilling fascination for her. 
Her own heart was her chief betrayer. She only saw Mon¬ 
signor Fane once more, and that was to tell him in a cold 
determined voice that she intended to marry Hugo Wingrave. 

There had been enormous pressure used, of course, for 
Major Kelsey was not the man to let such a prize escape. He 
accused his daughter of selfishness. Here was an important 
man, of great and growing wealth, who wished to marry her. 
Wingrave could place them both forever beyond any financial 
difficulty; he was even ready to pay off the major’s super¬ 
abundant debts. And for the sake of a miserable scruple she 
was prepared to send him away. But it had not been, as 
Monsignor Fane well knew, the old hackneyed story of the 
daughter sacrificing herself for the sake of bringing wealth 
and comfort to an invalid and impecunious father. She had 
fallen in love with Hugo Wingrave. She felt the impossibility 
of allowing him to go out of her life forever. 

Even then Hugo was bigoted and intolerant, but this effort 
on the part of the Church to separate him from the woman he 
loved had turned his growing anger to a black and bitter 
hatred. She should forget the past, he told her. His love 
would compensate for the sacrifice of these things she had 
been erroneously taught were necessary for salvation. From 
the day of her marriage she should never again speak to a 
priest nor enter a Catholic church. That page must be blotted 
out from the book of her life. He would have no priests in 
his house interfering with his private affairs. She was to be 
his—body and soul. . . 

What would this man say when he knew that his only sur¬ 
viving son had become a convert to the religion he hated? 

“I think that’s why she suffered so terribly when my brother 
was killed,” said Eustace. “Almost—as if it had been her 
fault.” 

He rose from his seat and walked restlessly about the room. 
The lights were swimming and looked blurred and confused. 


403 


LIGHT ON THE SHADOW 

He seemed to have lost hold of all permanent and stable human 
things. He was groping in this fearful darkness, wherein 
his mother seemed like a soul drowning in a deep gulf, crying 
aloud for his help. . . . 

“You never saw her again?” he asked. 

“No. She wrote to me once, when she had been married 
about three years. She asked me not to answer the letter. 
But she told me that her husband’s first wife was dead, and 
that she had tried to induce him to marry her again in a 
Catholic church. He refused. Already there were two little 
children, a boy and a girl. She didn’t feel able to leave them. 
He was more bitterly and fiercely opposed to her religion than 
ever before. I felt that she wasn’t happy—that conscience 
was beginning to torment her. The glamor of love and wealth 
had perhaps diminished, had lost something of their value for 
her, and she was face to face with the consciousness of her 
own deep offense against Almighty God and His Holy Church. 
I think she was beginning to see her apostasy, her betrayal, in 
their true light.” 

With each successive child the wound must have been re¬ 
opened. She must have mourned over those little souls whom 
she had deprived of their immortal heritage. And for her¬ 
self—what years of starvation and deprivation must have been 
hers! 

As yet Eustace could hardly envisage that long martyrdom 
which his father’s passionate, jealous, and possessive love 
could have done so little to relieve. She was chained and 
bound to her sin. Not daring to break away from it because 
of the children she had borne. Condemned to that complete 
severance from Christ and His Church. Never the perfect, 
intimate approach which he had himself savored in all. its 
ineffable sweetness, the loving welcome, the consolation 
Knowing how sensitive she was, Eustace perceived more and 
more clearly, as he contemplated her now, how she must have 
been tortured by those long years of separation, spiritual im¬ 
prisonment, unassuageable nostalgia. He saw her now as a 
beautiful and tragic figure, wandering astray in the wilder¬ 
ness, and he knew what Philip’s death must have meant to 


404 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


her. This son who, whatever happened, could never claim 
on earth his spiritual heritage. This one who had died outside 
the Fold. . . . 

He wanted to go to her at once, to kneel at her feet, and 
entreat her to return, no matter at what cost. For the mo¬ 
ment he felt stronger than his father. Something must be 
done for her. She mustn’t be left like that, perishing of 
starvation in the wilderness. His father must be made to see 
that he couldn’t keep her any longer on the rack—like a beau¬ 
tiful butterfly pinned to a board. He would go back to Pendre 
and plead with him. Oh, he must be forced to yield now, this 
harsh, indomitable man! He must permit her as far as pos¬ 
sible to retrieve and repair the past. Eustace felt acutely 
responsible for his mother. Never before had he loved her 
with such infinite tenderness, with such plenitude of under¬ 
standing. Her face rose up before him, so beautiful in its 
soft perfection of line and coloring. Surely a soul most dear 
to God. ... 

“Ought I to let this separate me from Nella?” Eustace 
asked suddenly. It came into his mind then that Monsignor 
Fane might have had some such motive in seeking him out 
this evening. 

“If you hadn’t been a Catholic I should certainly have 
recommended her not to marry you. But now—” He looked 
at Eustace with something of admiration. “You can help each 
other. There’s nothing to prevent your marriage.” 

But even as he spoke he felt a passing regret that Eustace 
had no vocation for the priesthood. He could have pictured 
him as an earnest young priest, filled with a fiery zeal. Some¬ 
times the children of an apostate felt impelled to a life of 
sacrifice and heroic mortification in their desire to repair the 
sin of their parent. To bear the iniquity of others, and thus 
conform more closely and perfectly to the pattern of their 
Divine Master. 

“What you have to do is to try and win your mother back,” 
continued the priest, in a slow earnest voice. 

“Yes,” he assented. “She’s always seemed to me like a 
saint. I used to wonder, thought, at the absence of. religion 


LIGHT ON THE SHADOW 


405 


in her life. You see, she never went to church or spoke to us 
about religion. I remember once when I was very little she 
refused to hear me say my prayers. I understand it now.” 

Monsignor Fane’s explanation covered everything, even the 
mystery of the shadow. 

In imagination Eustace seemed to see his mother, standing 
on the threshold of the great door at Pendre, waiting for him, 
beckoning to him. . . . 

“What I believe is that she wants to come back,” he added. 
“God grant that it may be so.” 

The priest rose to go. Eustace knelt to receive his blessing. 

3 

When he found himself alone once more, he felt that he 
could not bear to remain in the little hotel room with its rather 
dismal furniture and appurtenances. He put on his hat and 
coat and went out into the Roman night, all cold, pure dark 
blue with the scattered stars overhead. 

The chill wind touched him like frozen fingers, bracing his 
nerves. He wandered and wandered for hours through the 
lighted crowded streets before going back to the hotel. All 
the time he scarcely gave a thought to Nella. It was his 
mother, whose haunting presence seemed to be with him, pos¬ 
sessing all his heart and brain with an almost cruel domination. 

It was late when he returned, and he saw a letter from his 
mother lying on the table in his room. He picked it up and 
glanced hastily at it. As he opened the envelope a newspaper 
cutting slipped out and fell upon the floor. He retrieved it, 
and the heading of the paragraph caught his eye. It was as 
follows: 

ONLY SON OF WELL-KNOWN PEER TURNS MONK 

“We learn on good authority from a correspondent in Rome 
that the Honorable Eustace Wingrave, only surviving son of 
Lord Pendre, was recently received into the Catholic Church 
during his sojourn in the Eternal City, and that it is his inten¬ 
tion to enter the priesthood and seek for admittance into the 
Benedictine Order.” 


406 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


The scrap of paper fell from Eustace' hand. He turned 
with a sense of almost sick suspense to his mother's letter. 

“Darling Eustie,’’ it ran, “Barbara sent me this cutting—or 
rather she sent it to your father—this morning. Of course he 
is terribly upset about it, and says if it is true, he will never 
have you in the house again. You know he never allows 
Vicky and Martin to come here, and 1 am only able to see her 
when I go to Hill Street, which is very seldom. I hftve only 
had one little glimpse of her since her return from the South 
of France; she is looking stronger and better than I have ever 
seen her. And so perfectly happy. 

“Eustie darling, when you told me last spring that you 
wanted ■ to learn more about God, I hoped and prayed that 
you might find your way into the Catholic Church. And you 
have done so. I wanted this for you even though I felt that it 
might mean separation from myself, and the ruin of your 
temporal career. But you have always seemed to me one who 
could bear poverty better than riches. You had other ideals. 

I can only tell you how deeply I approve of your choice. But 
is it true that you mean to be a priest—a Benedictinet I 
should be the last to try to dissuade you from a path which 
of all ways _ spells the fullest perfection. Only, you mustn't de¬ 
cide anything in a hurry. In fact, I believe the Catholic 
Church insists upon a convert’s waiting a year or two before 
entering the religious life. 

“You knew, I think, what this step would mean in regard to 
your future. Your father’s attitude toward the Church is no 
secret to you. He bore Vicky’s conversion better than I ex¬ 
pected, but it came at an hour of acute anxiety when we 
hardly thought she could live . . . With a daughter, too, it 
is perhaps a little different. But you are now his only son. 
He was beginning to inake plans for your succeeding to all that 
should have been Philip’s. I know these things could never 
weigh at all with you, and yet I am sorry that you must for¬ 
feit them, in spite of all the intense happiness I am feeling 
now at your conversion. 

“Write to me, dear Eustie. Tell me—everything! Do not 
think that this can ever separate us. If I could tell you all, 
you would know that we are closer than we have ever been 
before. God bless you, my dear, dear son . . . 

Your loving mother, 

G. P. 

“P. S. Pamela came to us yesterday evening and told us of 
her engagement to Ernest Soames. They will be married soon 
after Easter. I wonder if you have seen anything of Mrs 
Dyrhamf I hear she is in Rome with Miss Tresham.’’ 

Eustace read and re-read his mother’s letter. It seemed to 
breathe a tenderness, a solicitude, that calmed and soothed and 
reassured him. So she knew and approved. She would have 


LIGHT ON THE SHADOW 


407 


approved even if he had taken that momentous further step of 
which the gossiping paragraph had spoken. 

But who could have written it? Who could have broad¬ 
casted his intimate private affairs in this fashion? Were the 
doings of Lord Pendre’s son and heir of such particular im¬ 
portance to the world at large ? He could not believe it. He 
was sorry now that he had shown an apparent want of con¬ 
fidence in his mother by not telling her of his reception the 
moment it had taken place. He could not bear to think she 
had learnt of it from another source. 

But he would write to her at once—he would tell her every¬ 
thing. Everything, that is to say, that concerned himself— 
his conversion, his engagement to Nella Tresham. He would 
make no mention of Monsignor Fane and his disclosures. 
That could be done best by word of mouth when he saw her 
again. 

She had not said much about his father’s anger, nor of the 
effect the news had had upon him. But he could read be¬ 
tween the lines. If Vicky was not permitted to go to Pendre 
how much more rigorous would be his own exile from home ? 
There was no post awaiting him at Wingrave’s now. He 
would have to look in future to his own efforts for the gaining 
of a livelihood. But it was only on Nella’s account that he 
felt the smallest regret, and because, too, in the far future he 
would not be able to restore the old chapel at Pendre. 

4 

Monsignor Fane’s verdict was favorable. Eustace Win- 
grave had made an excellent impression upon him. The priest, 
however, gave Mrs. Welby no details of that interview. It 
was no part of his duty or intention to relate to her that story 

_now nearly thirty years old—of Giselda Kelsey s marriage. 

Eustace could if he chose communicate that melancholy his¬ 
tory to Nella. . 

Monsignor Fane visited Mrs. Welby on the following day, 
and found her alone. Mrs. Dyrham was visiting friends, and 
the young people had gone for a drive along the Via Appia. 

But Mrs. Dyrham had also received a copy of the paragraph 


408 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

concerning Eustace, and was inclined to consider it impertinent 
rather than dangerous. It had, however, perturbed Mrs. 
Welby, and she displayed it now with some eagerness. 

You know we’re dreadfully afraid it may have a very 
bad effect upon Lord Pendre,” she said. 

I have reason to believe that he’s a very bigoted man,” 
observed the priest, gravely. (( I doubt if this boy will inherit 
more than the empty title. Still, that’s really no reason why 
he shouldn’t marry Nella. The young people seem very de¬ 
votedly attached to each other—it will be a good Catholic 
marriage for them both.” 

But Nella has practically nothing. Fifty pounds a year at 
the outside. Are you going to advise them to marry on that ?” 

Mrs. Welby had coped with tradesmen’s books and bills in 
her day; thus her despondent attitude toward domestic budgets 
was the outcome of stern experience. 

“Eustace has two hands and a sound head. Let him work. 
It won’t hurt him.” 

“It’s not so easy to find a job,” murmured Mrs. Welby. 
She was obstinately pessimistic, and felt that she had a right 
to be, for she knew Lord Pendre very intimately indeed, by 

repute. 

“They talk of getting married directly after Easter,” she 
added. 

“Well, I see no objection to that, except that Easter isn’t till 
the sixteenth of April. They’ve got nearly two months to 
wait.” 

. that’s an extraordinarily short engagement. And with 
this uncertainty about his prospects—” 

The priest smiled. “I presume that Wingrave has enough 
to keep them both till he can find work. Poverty never hurt 
anyone that I can see.” 

Mrs. Welby sighed. Of course she wouldn’t have liked 
darling Nella to marry Eustace unless he had been a Catholic, 
but it seemed sad that in order to possess the one thing, he 
was compelled to forfeit all his very substantial worldly pos¬ 
sessions. Poor children—they didn’t in the least realize what 
they were doing. And it was useless to counsel prudence to 


LIGHT ON THE SHADOW 409 

Nella—she was very much in love and would hear no talk of 
delay. 

“It’s odd,” she remarked, “that these Wingrave children 
who’ve been brought up practically without religion and in an 
atmosphere of bigotry, should turn to the Faith in this way. 
There’s his sister Vicky, you know—such a stormy little 
creature, utterly unmanageable, Mrs. Dyrham always told me 
—she insisted upon becoming a Catholic when she was sup¬ 
posed to be dying of typhoid in Brighton last autumn. She’s 
married to a young convert—Major Sedgwick. Lord Pendre 
of course could say nothing because the girl was thought to 
be dying at the time. He never liked her—I’ve been told he 
used to beat her when she was a little girl.” 

“Really?” He had summed up Lord Pendre as an obstinate, 
bigoted, but not a cruel man. The information caused him a 
pang of dismay. Had Lady Pendre’s life been a happy one, 
with this fierce, dominating man? Had she suffered at seeing 
her children ill-treated? Had she paid dearly and twice over 
for the possession of that vast wealth, that important position? 

“It seems almost as if the Catholic religion were in their 
blood,” remarked Mrs. Welby. 

“Perhaps it is,” he answered guardedly. 

“Of course where there’s martyr’s blood in the family they 
always say there are converts in every generation 1” 

“Well, one can understand that.” 

“Lord Pendre is a materialist. I’ve heard the house reeks 
of money. I’ve never been inside it.” 

“An old Catholic property, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes. It belonged for centuries to the various branches of 
the Chittenden family. Lord Pendre bought it after old Mrs. 
Chittenden’s death. He was Mr. Wingrave then—he took his 
title from the place.” 

“Well, I still hope that some day it may be in Catholic hands 

again.” t f 

“Oh, you don’t know Lord Pendre if you think hell ever 

leave a farthing to a Catholic!” She shook her head. “These 
children were never allowed to know each other. . We met 
them for the first time on Moth Hill last spring, just after 


410 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Eustace had come back from Iraq. Nella declares she fell in 
love with him then . . . hut that’s only a silly school-girlish 
idea. She’s such a baby, still, in many ways. Only, he says 
the same thing, so I suppose there must have been a strong 
mutual attraction.” 

Mrs. Welby sighed. She didn’t approve of these boy and 
girl marriages that had become so frequent and fashionable 
since the War. People ought to wait until they had an assured 
income, or at least some experience of the cost of things. 
Eustace and Nella seemed to her quite extravagantly reckless. 
They ought to wait at least a year—two years—. 

It was very disappointing to find that Monsignor Fane 
should be so strongly on their side. But priests, too, were 
often very ignorant about money. . . . 

“Eustace made a most favorable impression upon me,” re¬ 
marked Monsignor Fane. “I think he would make any girl 
happy. They are lucky to have found each other.” 

“I do hope Mrs. Dyrham will really carry out her intention 
of giving Nella a little dot. People often talk in that generous 
way, but it means nothing.” 

“I am told,” he assured her smiling, “that many young 
couples in these days, manage to live for the first year on the 
checks they receive for wedding-presents.” 

“Not when they get married in a hole-and-corner way 
abroad, as these intend to do. People generally make that an 
excuse for forgetting to send them anything at all.” 

“Well, we must hope for the best,” he observed smiling, 
seeing that it was useless to try to cheer her, in her present 
mood of determined pessimism. 

But afterward when he left her, he saw Eustace and Nella 
driving slowly along the crowded Corso on their way home. 
He only caught a glimpse of their happy, smiling faces, but 
that glimpse reassured him. There was something almost 
romantic about their glowing youth, their radiant happiness. 
And there was stern stuff in Eustace too. He knew that in 
submitting to the Church, he had renounced his “great pos¬ 
sessions.” And he had not hesitated. Surely the great grace 
of helping to bring his mother back to the Fold would not be 
denied him. . . . 


CHAPTER XXII 


The Lifting: of the Shadow 

1 

T HE wedding took place very quietly in Rome on a day 
of mid-April. Monsignor Fane officiated, and only Mrs. 
VVelby, Mrs. Dyrham and the Cravens were present. 

Eustace had written to his mother directly the date was 
fixed, and had received rather a wistful reply in return. They 
had corresponded with great frequency since his engagement; 
in their letters a new note was discernible—a note of greater 
intimacy and understanding and confidence. 

Eustace had written to his father to tell him of his ap¬ 
proaching marriage, but he had received no reply. This 
silence chilled him; it seemed to augur ill for the future. 

They wandered through Umbria during a wonderful month 
when Italy was like a vast garden of flowers bathed in golden 
sunshine, dividing her two blue seas. It was a dream of en¬ 
chantment, and sometimes Eustace found it difficult to realize 
that it was something more than a dream. For Nella herself 
had a spirit-like quality that was not quite of earth—more 
than anyone he had ever met she seemed to be truly com¬ 
pounded of “spirit, fire and dew.” She was like a happy 
child, strayed down from heaven, young even for her twenty 
years, a thing of flame and air. ... 

"Sometimes I feel as if I should never hold you!” he told 
her one day, when they were wandering among the golden 
vineyards of the Umbrian hills and vales. 

The sun was very bright for May, and the air seemed full 
of little burning crystals that stung and dazzled his eyes. 
Nella, looking very slender and girlish in her thin white dress, 
was dancing along by his side. 

411 


412 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


Something in her Italian blood made her revel instinctively 
in this splendid golden sunlight; it almost intoxicated her. 

“You’ve no need to hold me, Eustie,” she whispered; “the 
difficulty would be if you ever tried to push me away!” 

She was suddenly serious, and in her seriousness there was 
a sweetness that seemed to transcend every other. 

When he looked at her now, he wished he could keep her 
always in Italy. She seemed to belong to this golden burning 
land of sunshine and flowers. But their holiday was already 
coming to an end. He would have to go back to England and 
seek for work. His gratuity, as well as Nella’s slender store 
of money, was quickly becoming exhausted. They were ex¬ 
tremely improvident, as poor Mrs. Welby had foreseen. 

A letter from his mother about this time, somewhat dis¬ 
turbed him, and made him secretly determine to go back as 
soon as he could. As yet he had told Nella nothing of her 
history, a sense of loyalty kept him silent on the subject. He 
couldn’t bear the thought of lowering her, even if ever so 
little, in Nella’s eyes. 

The letter informed him that Lady Pendre had been in 
London for a few weeks, and that she was staying quite alone 
in Hill Street for the present. It had been a great joy to see 
Vicky again; she and Martin were ideally happy. He was 
doing well in his new appointment. But in spite of all this, 
Eustace had the disquieting conviction that “something” must 
have happened. It was very unlike his mother to stay in Hill 
Street for so long alone. Even to see Vicky . . . And he dis¬ 
cerned in her letter certain puzzling reticences. She did not 
allude to her return home, nor say how long she intended to 
remain in London. From beginning to end of the letter there 
was no mention of his father. 

Had she left Pendre ? Had she found the separation—both 
physical and spiritual—from her children—impossible to bear ? 

At the end of the letter she had written: 

“Please let me know when yon, will be in London, and come 
and see me as soon as possible. I am longing to know your 
Nella” 


413 


THE LIFTING OF THE SHADOW 

When he had got thus far, he turned to his wife and read 
aloud that significant little postscript. 

“Oh, I do want you to know her. You’re sure to love each 
other!” he exclaimed eagerly. 

But even then he could not tell her of his mother’s tragedy. 

It belonged to her; he had no right to repeat it to anyone in 
the world. 

“I hope she’ll like me, Eustie,” smiled Nella. 

“She’ll love you,” Eustace assured her. 

“As much as she loved Pamela?” 

“Much more. I don’t believe she ever really cottoned to 
Pamela. She wasn’t her sort. She was kind to her for Phip’s 
sake. What a comfort to feel that Pamela is Mrs. Ernest 

Soames now!” . 

They had read the announcement of the wedding, in the 

English papers. . 

As far as Eustace could tell, his father must be quite alone 
at Pendre. Alone in that great, deserted, shadowed house. It 
seemed to him now a house of ghosts. . . . 

2 

They were back in London early in June, leaving Italy with 
that passionate regret which all her ardent lovers feel, and that 
is so incomprehensible to those who do not appreciate her. 

Eustace found some inexpensive lodgings, whither they 
moved the day after their arrival in town. They were not nice 
enough for Nella, but she was quite happy; she didn’t seem 
to mind. She was still at that stage when to be with Eustace 
was sufficient happiness. 

He had telegraphed to his mother, telling her they would 
come and see her in the afternoon. Somehow he felt that the 
interview would be rather a momentous one. Nella refused to 
accompany him at first, but Eustace entreated her to do so. 
“But she’ll want to talk to you alone. I shall only be in 

the way.” . « 

“You won’t. Why, she wants to see you more than she 

wants to see me.!” 


414 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


‘‘Well, you mustn’t mind if I go away and leave you together 
after a bit/* she compromised. 

As the hour of their appointment drew near Eustace grew 
visibly restless. He was to see his mother again for the first 
time since he had acquired this new definite knowledge that 
had given him his present clear and lucid conception of her. 
Some day—not to-day perhaps—he would have to tell her all 
that he knew, and he recoiled from the thought of inflicting 1 
such pain upon her. How much she had suffered in the past 
—how much she must still be suffering—he found it impos¬ 
sible to conjecture. Conscience, like any other part of one’s 
moral or physical equipment, can be atrophied from long dis¬ 
use and repression. It was conceivable, therefore, that during 
the past twenty-seven years she had learned to hush its in¬ 
sistent voice. But there must be in the lives of all apostate 
Catholics an occasional and disconcerting uprush from those 
subconscious stores of spirituality conserved from the devout 
years of faith . . . Such an uprush she must certainly have 
known at the moment when the news of Philip’s death had 
reached her. It was I who killed him . . . She had realized 
then that she had deprived him of his spiritual inheritance, 
that she had denied him all that Catholic equipment which 
could have prepared him so perfectly for eternal life. He was 
good and brave, but she had not taught him to be anything 
more. He had never been initiated into the Catholic rule of 
life, into Catholic faith and practice. 

And again when Eustace had disclosed to her his own spirit¬ 
ual difficulties, destined by God’s mercy to be solved by 
Catholicism, she must have thought of those years when she 
herself had known and loved the Truth—the Truth that she 
had betrayed and denied. . . . She must have remembered 
then, and perhaps his words had wounded her, like a sharp 
surgical instrument delicately probing an exposed nerve. . . . 

When they came into the room Lady Pendre was already 
sitting there. But the house had not apparently been prepared 
in any way for her advent. It was just as if she had come up 
by chance in August on a passing visit, for the pictures were 


THE LIFTING OF THE SHADOW, 


415 


swathed in newspapers, the furniture in brown holland. The 
carpets had been removed, and only a few shabby rugs covered 
the floor. It was so dismal, this room that Eustace always 
remembered as so beautiful, now that it was shorn of the 
books and china and flowers and pretty bibelots Lady Pendre 
liked to have about her. 

At once he thought: “Something has happened. Why, 
she’s living here as if she never expected anyone to come and 
see her!” He was sorry, too, that Nella should see her for 
the first time in this cheerless dismantled room. 

There was no change in his mother’s habitually passive 
attitude, that yet never suggested indolence, since her face, 
always so meditative and thoughtful, held that immutable as¬ 
pect of deep and brooding mental activity. 

“Mother—this is Nella!” he said, all shy eagerness, his 
great eyes burning like shadowed lamps beneath the heavy 
overhanging brows. He watched anxiously the meeting be¬ 
tween the two women. It must always be, he felt, something 
of an effort for a woman to greet her unknown daughter- 
in-law. 

But Lady Pendre took Nella in her arms and kissed her 
tenderly. 

“I’ve wanted so to see you—” she said. 

Nella was modern, simple, unembarrassed. But she was 
aware even then of the strange haunting beauty and charm of 
Eustace’ mother. It even made her feel a little uncouth and 
unfinished. 

“Are you going to be in London long ?” asked Eustace, his 
eyes involuntarily surveying the room. 

“Perhaps—a few weeks—” she answered evasively. 

“How on earth did you wangle leave from Dad?” 

“Barbara’s staying with him. And then the Soameses are 
just back at Moth Hill.” She seemed to be aware that these 
replies cast no light upon an obscure situation. 

Eustace longed to hear more. Had there been a crisis—a 
decisive breaking away? Had she felt the position to be no 
longer tenable ? The thought made him anxious. 

“Isn’t Dad coming up, then?” he asked. 


416 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

“No, I don’t think so. He has a great deal to do at Pendre 
just now.” 

Tea was brought in, but Eustace noticed that the footman 
was not one of the Pendre servants. Probably he was a “job” 
man, hired temporarily. 

So far he was only in possession of the bare facts, that she 
was here alone, and that Barbara was staying at Pendre with 
her father. Perhaps she would tell him more when they were 
alone. Nella, quick to perceive that her presence was an 
obstacle to complete confidence, rose directly she had finished 
her tea. 

“Eustie—I’m going to the Oratory. There’s Benediction— 
I shall be just in time. Meet me there later—I’ll wait for 
you.” 

She kissed Lady Pendre again, waved her hand to Eustace 
in farewell and went out of the room. Her going was a slight 
relief. Eustace immediately crossed the room and sat beside 
his mother on the sofa. 

Lady Pendre looked at him. 

“She’s charming, Eustie, and so pretty.” 

“Yes, isn’t she? I knew you’d love her. But tell me about 
. . . Dad.” 

“Oh, Eustie. ...” 

“Not if it’s going to hurt you,” he whispered. 

“You’ll have to know sometime. Only, it’s so hard to tell 
you now.” 

“Is it ? But perhaps I do know a little already. Wouldn’t 
that make it easier?” 

Nevertheless fear touched him with cold fingers. Perhaps 
there was yet something new, something more terrible to 
learn. His heart sank. 

She looked at him sorrowfully. 

“You can’t possibly know what I’m going to tell you. Per¬ 
haps I shall never go back to Pendre.” 

“Why on earth not? It’s no fault of yours if Vicky and I 
choose to become Catholics—to marry Catholics ?” 

She was silent. 

“But what have you done ?” he almost gasped. 


THE LIFTING OF THE SHADOW 41 7 

The revelation was very close now; it might help her per¬ 
haps to hear the extent of his own knowledge. 

“Can’t you guess, Eustie? Hasn’t it ever occurred to you?” 
“Tell me,” he said, even now supposing that he was in 
ignorance of some terrible and vital fact concerning her—a 
fact perhaps wholly unconnected with all that he had learned 
in Rome. 

“I want to come back,” she said simply. 

“To come back?” he echoed. 

“Yesterday I saw a priest. That’s why I left Pendre. I 
couldn’t bear it another day—another hour. Knowing that 
you and Vicky were waiting for me on the other side.” 

He was silent, but he took her hand in his and held it in a 
warm and comforting grasp. 

“I hadn’t been to confession for more than twenty-seven 
years,” she said. 

“And you’ve been now ?” 

“Yes. The Church is very merciful. ...” 

“Because Almighty God is merciful,” said Eustace. 

“Eustie, did you never suspect? Sometimes I thought you 

did.” 

“I wouldn’t let myself think it was that,” he answered. 
“But when I was in Rome—when Nella and I were first en¬ 
gaged—I met Monsignor Fane. He told me. He begged me 
to pray for you.” 

He bent down and kissed her hand with a sort of reverent 
homage. The gesture showed her better than any words how 
little this knowledge had affected his great love for her. 

“It made me understand the shadow—” he added. 

“The shadow. ...” She stared blankly in front of her. 
Then she said: “You see, it meant my leaving your father.” 
“But—his first wife is dead, isn’t she?” 

“Ours was never a marriage in the eyes of the Church. 
And he refuses to go through a second ceremony in a Catholic 

So the long conflict was at an end. Lord Pendre had been 
defeated by the very forces he believed that he had crushed 
and overcome. . . . 


418 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

“I just had to come away. It was a wrench,” she added 
simply. 

He had often wondered what her real attitude to his father 
was. But he had never been able to see beyond her silence, 
her deep indisputable loyalty as a wife. These seemed to him 
the invincible qualities of her nature. Did she care, now that 
the long bond between herself and her husband was broken? 
Was it a relief? Or had it torn her heart to go away and 
leave him, in response to this higher spiritual claim? For 
twenty-seven years—more than half her lifetime—they had 
shared joy and sorrow together. That alone created an in¬ 
timacy that perhaps nothing could destroy. 

And his father? . . . How had he accepted this decision 
of hers What was his attitude in the face of this dire do¬ 
mestic disaster and disruption? Eustace had never for a 
moment doubted the love of this fierce, hard, unscrupulous 
man for the woman he had made his wife. He must be suffer¬ 
ing now. Love and pride must surely be fighting a death- 
and-life conflict within him. But he had let her go . . . 
Pride had so far proved the victor. One by one he had 
suffered first his two younger children and then his wife to 
leave him, emancipating themselves from the shadow that 
brooded over Pendre. ... 

Yes, he had let her go. And it would have been so easy, 
on the face of it, for him to fulfil the one condition she had 
laid down and upon which alone she could remain. 

Perhaps he was sitting in solitude at Pendre now, nervously 
conscious of the shadow that had obscured in some sense the 
whole happiness of his married life. Could Barbara’s presence 
compensate in the least degree for the loss of the wife he 
had loved, for the son dead in his youth, for the two children 
deliberately seeking life and happiness in alien paths? How 
could he, indeed, bear the absence of the woman whom con¬ 
science had driven at last back to the Church, beyond his love 
and care? 

When Eustace thought of his father now, of the man he 
had feared and almost disliked and yet whom he had admired 
for his cool ruthlessness, it was with a passion of pity. 


THE LIFTING OF THE SHADOW 419 

“He must come to his senses. Hell never stand life with¬ 
out you—” 

“We can’t expect miracles to happen. Perhaps I deserve 
this—this punishment.” Her voice was steady and quite emo¬ 
tionless. “Somehow, I felt when Phip was killed that things 
couldn’t go on as they were for much longer. And then when 
you and Vicky had both left us—” 

She stopped, gazing at Eustace. As yet she knew few de¬ 
tails of his spiritual journey, only just what he had told her 
in his letters. But she felt that, placed as he had been, it 
couldn’t have been very easy. The first response to grace is 
not often given without a struggle. And he had known that 
he would have to sell all that he had to purchase that pearl 
without price. The years of his youth, too, had been empty 
of all preparation for that supreme hour of great gain and 
great renunciation. . . . 

“You’re happy?” she asked him, suddenly. 

“Perfectly happy, as far as I myself am concerned. You 
see, I’ve got everything. Faith—Nella—” He stopped 
abruptly. “It’s only when I think of you that I’m unhappy.” 

“Don’t think of me, Eustie. I deserve everything. God 
can never punish me enough for my faithlessness.” 

“You were very young—there was that excuse.” 

“Yes, and my father was ill and suffering—we’d come to 
the end of all our money. To him it seemed like Providence 
that your father should arrive in Rome just then and fall in 
love with me. It wasn’t till later that I knew about the di¬ 
vorced wife. I spoke to my father—he gave me no help—he 
wanted the money and said so. I knew I was doing wrong, 
and I did it deliberately.” She touched her breast. “I wished 
to marry your father. I loved him. Monsignor Fane tried to 
prevent it. Once he nearly succeeded. I went away—down to 
Anzio—my father became very ill and sent for me. And I 
was glad to go back. When I got home your father was 
there. . . 

But he could only think of her as young, alone, deeply lov¬ 
ing, and having to cope with this terrific problem. 

“Afterward Hugo was afraid that I might have remorse 


420 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 

and leave him. That was why he kept me away from any 
chance of meeting a priest or going into a Catholic church. 
He grew to hate the Catholic Church as something that con¬ 
tinually menaced his happiness. Then the children began to 
come . . . Philip . . . Barbara. . . . He had them all 
christened by a Church of England clergyman the day they 
were born. He was bigoted, to begin with, but afterward he 
was obsessed by a kind of personal hatred and fear. Just as 
if he could foresee that some day this—this would happen.” 

“Isn't there any way out ?” 

“Not with your father.” 

“Does Vicky know ?” 

“Yes, I told her a few days ago. But it seems Martin had 
guessed that there was something of the kind.” 

Eustace caressed her hand. 

“You must come and live with us,” he said. “I’ll work for 
you as well as for Nella. Dad won’t want me at Wingrave’s 
now, of course—he’s too fed up with me. But I’ll get a job 
somehow. Nella and I don’t care about money. We just want 
enough to live on.” 

“We must see, dear. But I think for a time I should like 
to live very quietly in a convent. I might pay you a visit 
sometimes.” 

“We shall look for a little villa,” he said, “just a tiny banal 
sort of place, with a square garden back and front. Emptyish 
rooms with whitewashed walls—no dark corners anywhere. 
Everything terribly simple and clean.” His eyes shone. 

“Banal—emptyish—simple and clean. ...” She felt in 
those words his deep revolt against Pendre and its shadow. 
She couldn’t blame him. He wanted to emancipate himself 
completely from the traditions of his childhood. He had never 
wished to be an “eldest son.” Between himself and his father 
there was a whole world of difference, in material as well as 
in spiritual things. His rebellion had always been deep-rooted 
in other soil than that of mere incompatibility. 

Over and over again one noticed that the young desired to 
reconstruct life on a new simplicity of basis. The old stand- 


THE LIFTING OF THE SHADOW 


421 


ards had been tried and found wanting. It was only the old 
that wished to return to the conditions of a pre-War world. 

“I daresay your father will leave Pendre to Barbara and 
little Philip/’ she said presently. ‘Tin afraid it will go hardly 
for you and Vicky in the future.” 

In his present irreconcilable mood she knew that her hus¬ 
band was capable of going to any extreme. 

“Oh, we’re young. It won’t hurt either Martin or myself 
to work. And now I’ve got Nella, I must work hard.” He 
smiled, and a look of great peace and contentment illuminated 
his face. “I’d even go into Wingrave’s for her sake, but 
there’s no chance of that now!” 

He rose and, stooping, kissed her. 

“I must push off or I shall keep Nella waiting. But I’ll look 
in to-morrow—■” 

She put out her arms and pulled him downward until his 
face touched hers. 

“Darling Eustie,” she murmured, very softly. 

Now that the old dividing barriers were destroyed, she felt 
that she could show him at last how dear he was. Infinitely, 
preciously dear. . . . 

Pie kissed her and went out of the room. 

3 

Lady Pendre was alone. Eustace and Vicky had lunched 
with her that day—Eustace full of an excellent appointment 
that seemed to have fallen from heaven, almost unasked. 
True, it would bind him to a city office for many hours in the 
week, but what did that matter if he could earn enough to keep 
Nella and himself in the cottage of his dreams? Afterward 
he would perhaps be able to hear of some opening in one of 
the colonies where they could lead a freer, more outdoor life. 
But he wanted to remain in England for the present; he felt 
that his mother might need him. He hesitated to leave her 
so completely alone. ... 

More than a month had passed since she had left Pendre. 
It was July now, and for some days she had found it very 


422 CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW,\ 

hot and airless in London, for she was unused to town life and 
rather disliked it. 

Even now she could hardly bring herself to rehearse men¬ 
tally that final scene with her husband. But he had at least 
made her realize its finality. If she took the step she pro¬ 
posed to take, of reconciliation with her Church, there could 
be no other outcome. There must be, he assured her, no re¬ 
tracing of footsteps. He would never forgive her. And then 
she had very quietly told him that when the step was taken 
she must leave Pendre. She could not remain under his roof 
any longer. She was legally his wife, but her marriage in the 
eyes of the Church had been no marriage at all. Until he con¬ 
sented to go through a second ceremony they must remain 
apart. 

And then slowly he had realized what she was trying to tell 
him. She intended to leave him. Her religion was the rock 
upon which their ship had foundered. Had he not always 
known that it might be? Had he not perceived its danger 
when he had tried to keep her from all contact with it ? But 
destiny had fought against him at the time of Vicky’s illness. 

Giselda had chosen between him and her religion. And 
she had made up her mind to cut the knot and return to the 
practice of her faith. Only on certain conditions could she 
return to him, and he was little likely to comply with them. 
Perhaps, indeed, in this last and most poignant struggle his 
love for her had perished too. . . . 

During that month no word of him had reached her. Bar¬ 
bara had written once or twice, little cold letters in which 
there was never any mention of her father. Perhaps indeed 
he had requested her not to mention him—he wished the 
silence between them to be complete. In any case Lady Pendre 
was utterly ignorant as to what was passing in her husband’s 
mind. 

It might be that he would take legal steps to induce her to 
return to him, believing that the mere threat of a publicity 
she so dreaded might actuate her to comply with his desire 
that she should come back. But from her knowledge of him, 
she believed it was more likely that he would simply suffer 


THE LIFTING OF THE SHADOW 


423 


this silence to continue, and live on alone, alienated from her 
and from his two younger children. He would simply cast 
her out of his life, only caring that she should have sufficient 
money to keep her from actual want. 

Tea had just been brought in. She had half hoped that 
Vicky, either alone or with Martin, would appear, to keep 
her company. She was feeling a little lonely, and she had only 
a few more days in which it would be possible for her to see 
her children. She had made all arrangements to leave London 
during the following week, and stay in a convent in rather a 


lonely part of Yorkshire. 

The tea was cleared away. The hours wore on. The July 
day, bright and golden with burning sunlight, was drawing 
to a close. Lady Pendre was so immersed in thought that she 
did not hear a step upon the stairs. But the sound of the door 
being abruptly opened aroused her. She looked up and saw 
her husband advancing toward her. 

If he had been a ghost she could not have feared him more. 
Already she seemed to feel the lash of his harsh and wounding 
words falling upon her like so many bitter blows. But as he 
came nearer in the deepening twilight she saw that he was 
very pale. His dark hard-hewn face had something of the 
curious enigmatic expression of a waxen death-mask. 

“Giselda,” he said, and his voice seemed to break on the 

word. . r., .. , 

She rose, trembling, and went toward him. She realized 

that he had not returned in anger. A faintness came over 
her, blurring his face a little. 

“Yes, Hugo? Do you want anything?” 

Her voice was not quite steady. His very presence had 
begun to weave the old spell. She could see herself, a girl, 
hurrying back from Anzio to find him there, sitting with her 
father. The day when the die had been cast, and the seed 
sown for this bitter harvest. 

He had always been able to make her feel weak, a little 


helpless. ,. 1M . . . 

“I want you!” The words fell from his lips like pistol 

shots. “You must come back to Pendre! I can’t live without 


424 


CHILDREN OF THE SHADOW 


you. We’ve never been parted before.” His great black eyes 
seemed to devour her hungrily, and across the harsh tones, 
rough and abrupt, she was sensible of a relenting tenderness. 
She knew now that he had always loved her; it was his love 
that had made him hate and fear those very things that were 
capable of separating them. 

Even now she could hardly believe that he had really come. 
She had had many wild and fantastic dreams of the future, 
but never this one. Never that he would return, and perhaps 
plead and relent. Almost, she had believed that his long love 
for her was dead, that she had slain it with her own hands. 

But her decision was made. No one knew what it had cost 
her. They had only seen the cold determination with which 
she had finally cut the knot. 

She tottered to a seat. He came nearer and stood in front 
of her, still not touching her. Almost as if he had no right. 

“Hugo—you had better know it at once. I have seen a 
priest—I’ve been to confession. I’ve done what I could to 
atone for my apostasy.” 

She watched him as she spoke. But there was no sign of 
anger in his miserable haggard face. 

“Do you think I care? You can do whatever you like, only 
come back to me, Giselda! Our children have left us. Bar¬ 
bara’s getting bored at Pendre, and Gerard wants her to go 
to Norway with him. The others have chosen their own paths. 
I tried to keep them from your Church, even from all knowl¬ 
edge of it. If I were at all superstitious I should think that 
something stronger than myself had controlled and guided 
them. You said once it -was in their blood. Perhaps that ex¬ 
plains it. But I don’t want to speak of their rebellion now. 
Only come back to me.” 

His voice had lost nothing of its sternness, of its iron con¬ 
trol. His black eyes were somber and hard, his face was like 
a stone mask, rough-hewn and clumsily modeled. She knew 
now that all those weeks, since her departure from Pendre, he 
had been struggling against the claims of that love that had 
been perhaps, after all, the supreme passion of his life. 

“No,” she said, “I can’t come back. You’ll never agree to 


THE LIFTING OF THE SHADOW 


425 


the only condition upon which I could return to you. And I 
can’t be separated from my children. I love them.” She 
lifted her eyes to his face. 

He came a step nearer. 

“Giselda 1” 

She was silent. How long could she let him plead in vain? 

“Any conditions,” he said. “Whatever you like. Only 
come back. . . .” 

“You’d, agree to that second ceremony in a Catholic 
church ?” 

He bowed his head in assent. 

“And you’ll forgive the children—let them come to Pendre 
whenever they want to? I can’t be separated from them. 
Since I’ve been in London I’ve seen them all—Martin and 
Vicky, Eustace and Nella. Vicky and Eustace have become 
Catholics of their own free will. I did nothing to help them. 
I had to stand aside. I know you always feared it.” There 
was a faint break in her voice. She believed that now, when 
he heard her conditions thus explicitly declared, he would turn 
away and leave her. He could never bend his neck to such a 
hard yoke as that. 

“If I go back to Pendre they must be allowed to come and 
see me,” she added. 

There was a little silence, and then he came and sat beside 
her on the sofa and put his arms about her. She felt his kisses 
on her face. Never in all the long years of their married life 
had she seen him in such a softened mood. 

“If I hadn’t been ready to give in do you think I should be 
here now? Giselda, we’ve been married too long to waste 
words. Make your own plans, and then when we’re settled 
again at Pendre the children can come whenever they like. 
You shall have every opportunity of practicing your religion. 
Tell Eustace he can go to Wingrave’s if he wants to. Have 
it all your own way, my darling. Come back on any terms 
. . . Only come. . . 

THE END 


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BOY SAVERS’ GUIDE. Quin, S.J. net, 

CATECHISM EXPLAINED, THE. 

Spirago-Clarke. net, $ 3 - 75 * 
CATHOLIC AMERICAN, THE. 

Schmidt, net, $1.50. 

CATHOLIC BELIEF. Faa di Bruno. 

Paper, $0.25; cloth, net, $0.85. 
CATHOLIC CEREMONIES AND EX¬ 
PLANATION OF THE ECCLE¬ 
SIASTICAL YEAR. Durand. Paper, 
$0.25; cloth, net, $0.83. 

CATHOLIC HOME ANNUAL. Retail 
$0.25; postpaid, $0.29. 

CATHOLIC PRACTICE AT CHURCH 
AND AT HOME. Klauder. Paper, 
*$0.45; cloth, net, $0.90. 
CATHOLIC’S READY ANSWER, THE. 

Hill, S.J. net, $2.00. 

CATHOLIC TEACHING FOR YOUNG 
AND OLD. Wray. Paper, $0.23; 
cloth, net, $0.83. 

CATHOLIC’S WORK IN THE WORLD 
Husslein, S.J. net, $1.50. 
CEREMONIAL FOR ALTAR BOYS. 

Britt, O.S.B. net, $0.60. 
CHARACTERISTICS AND RELIG¬ 
ION OF MODERN SOCIALISM. 
Ming, S.J. nmo. net, $2.50. 

CHILD PREPARED FOR FIRST COM¬ 
MUNION. de Zulueta. Paper, *$0.08. 
CHRISTIAN APOLOGETICS. De- 
vivier-Messmer. net, $ 3 -S°- 
CHRISTIAN EDUCATION. O’Con¬ 
nell. net, $1.00. 

CHRISTIAN FATHER. Cramer, net, 
$0.85. 

CHRISTIAN MOTHER. CrAmer. net, 
$0.83. 


CHURCH AND THE PROBLEMS OF 
TODAY, THE. Schmidt. i2mo. 
net, $1.50. 

CORRECT THING FOR CATHOLICS. 
Bugg. net, $1.23. 

DIVINE GRACE. Wirth. net, $0.85. 
EDUCATION OF OUR GIRLS. Shields. 
net, $1.30. 

EXPLANATION OF BIBLE HISTORY. 
Nash, net, $2.30. 

EXPLANATION OF CATHOLIC 
MORALS. Stapleton, net, $0.83. 
EXPLANATION OF THE BALTI¬ 
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EXPLANATION OF THE CREED. 
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EXPLANATION OF GOSPELS AND 
OF CATHOLIC WORSHIP. Lam- 
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EXPLANATION OF THE MASS. 
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EXPLANATION OF THE SALVE 
REGINA. St. Alphonsus. net, $1.25. 
EXTREME UNCTION. Paper, *$0.12. 
FOLLOWING OF CHRIST, THE. 
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FOUNDATION OF TRUE MORALITY. 

Slater, S.J. net, $1.23. 
FUNDAMENTALS OF THE RELIG¬ 
IOUS LIFE. Schleuter, S.J. net, $0.75. 
FUTURE LIFE, THE. Sasia, S.J. net, 

GENERAL CONFESSION MADE 
EASY. Konings.C.SS.R. Cloth. *$o.2S. 
GENTLEMAN, A. Egan, net, $1.23. 
GIFT OF THE KING. By a Religious. 
net, $0.60. 

o-h-os 


GLORIES AND TRIUMPHS OF THE 
CATHOLIC CHURCH, net , $3.50. 

GOD, CHRIST, AND THE CHURCH. 
Hammer, O.F.M. net , $3.50. 

GOFFINE’S DEVOUT INSTRUC¬ 
TIONS ON THE EPISTLES AND 
GOSPELS FOR THE SUNDAYS 
AND HOLY-DAYS. net . $1.75- 

GREAT ENCYCLICAL LETTERS OF 
POPE LEO XIII. net , $^50. 

GUIDE FOR SACRISTANS, net , $1.30. 

HANDBOOK OF THE CHRISTIAN RE¬ 
LIGION. Wilmers, S.J. net , ^[$2.50. 

HEAVEN OPEN TO SOULS. Semple, 
S.J. net , $2.75. 

HOME WORLD THE. Doyle, S.J. 
Paper, $0.25; cloth, net , $1.25. 

HOW TO COMFORT THE SICK, 
Krebs, C.SS.R. net , $0.85. 

HOW TO MAKE THE MISSION. By 
a Dominican Father. Paper, *$0.12. 

INSTRUCTIONS ON TPIE COM¬ 
MANDMENTS OF GOD AND THE 
SACRAMENTS OF THE CHURCH. 
St. Alphonses Liguori. net , $0.85. 

INTRODUCTION TO A DEVOUT 
LIFE. St. Francis de Sales, net , 
$1.00. 

LADY. A. Bugg. net , $1.25. 

LAWS OF THE KING. By a Religious. 
net , $0.60. 

LESSONS OF THE SAVIOUR. By a 
Religious, net , $0.60. 

LITTLE ALTAR BOY’S MANUAL. 
$0.50. 

MANUAL OF SELF-KNOWLEDGE 
AND CHRISTIAN PERFECTION, 
A. Henry, C.SS.R. net , $0.75. 

MANUAL OF THEOLOGY FOR THE 
LAITY. Geiermann, C.SS.R. Paper, 
*$0.45; cloth, net , $0.90. 

MASS AND VESTMENTS OF THE 
CATHOLIC CHURCH. Walsh, n , $3.00. 

MASS-SERVER’S CARD. Perdoz. net , 
$0.50. 

MORALITY OF MODERN SOCIAL¬ 
ISM. Ming, S.J. net , $2.50. 

NARROW WAY, THE. Geiermann, 
C.SS.R. net , $0.90. 

OUT TO WIN. Straight Talks to Boys 
on the Way to Manhood. Conroy, 
S.J. net , $1.50. 

PRINCIPAL CATHOLIC PRACTICES. 
Schmidt, net , $1.50. 

QUEEN’S FESTIVALS, THE. By a 
Religious, net , $0.60. 


REASONABLENESS OF CATHOLIC 
CEREMONIES AND PRACTICES. 
Burke, net , $0.75. 

RELIGIOUS STATE, THE. St. Al- 
phonsus. net , $0.75. 
SACRAMENTALS OF THE HOLY 
CATHOLIC CHURCH. Lambing. 
Paper, $0.25; cloth, net , $0.85. 
SCAPULAR MEDAL, THE. Geier¬ 
mann, C.SS.R. Paper, *$0.08. 

SHORT CONFERENCES ON THE 
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$0.85. 

SHORT COURSE IN CATHOLIC DOC¬ 
TRINE. Paper, *$0.12. 

SHORT STORIES ON CHRISTIAN 
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SOCIALISM: ITS THEORETICAL 

BASIS AND PRACTICAL APPLI¬ 
CATION. Cathrein-Gettleman. net , 

SOCIAL ORGANIZATION IN PAR¬ 
ISHES. Garesche, S.J. net , $2.75. 
SPIRITUAL PEPPER AND SALT. 
Stang. Paper, *$0.45; cloth, net , 

$0.90. 

STORIES OF THE MIRACLES OF 
OUR LORD. By a Religious, net , 
$0.60. 

STORY OF THE FRIENDS OF JESUS. 

By a Religious, net , $0.60. 
SUNDAY-SCHOOL DIRECTOR’S 
GUIDE. Sloan, net , $1.50. 
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GUIDE. Sloan, net , $1.23. 

SURE WAY TO A HAPPY MAR¬ 
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TALKS TO NURSES. Spalding, S.J. 
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TALKS TO PARENTS. Conroy, S.J. 
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TALKS WITH THE LITTLE ONES 
ABOUT THE APOSTLES’ CREED. 
By a Religious, net , $0.60. 
TRAINING OF CHILDREN AND OF 
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TRUE POLITENESS. Demore. *,$1.25. 
VOCATION. Van Tricht-Connijt. 

Paper, *$0.12. 

VOCATIONS EXPLAINED. Cut flush, 

*$O.I2. 

WAY OF INTERIOR PEACE, de 
Lehen. S.J. net , $2.25. 

WHAT THE CHURCH TEACHES. 
Drury. Paper, *$0.45; cloth, net , $0.90. 


II. DEVOTION, MEDITATION, SPIRITUAL READING, 
PRAYER-BOOKS 


ABANDONMENT; or Absolute Surrender 
of Self to Divine Providence. Caus- 
sade, S.T. net , $0.75. 

ADORATION OF THE BLESSED 
SACRAMENT. Tesniere. net , $0.83. 
BLESSED SACRAMENT BOOK. 
Prayer-Book by Father Lasance. Im. 
leather. $2.25. 

BLOSSOMS OF THE CROSS. Giehrl. 
net , $1.75. 

BOOK OF THE PROFESSED. 3 vols. 
Each, net , $1.35. 


BREAD OF LIFE, THE. William. 

net , $1.33. 

CATHOLIC GIRL’S GUIDE, THE. 
Prayer-Book by Father Lasance . Seal 
grain cloth, stiff covers, red edges, $1.25. 
Im. leather, limp, red edges, $1.50; gofd 
edges, $2.00. Real leather, limp, gold 
edges, $2.50. 

CHARACTERISTICS OF TRUE DE¬ 
VOTION. Grou, S.T. net , $1.00. 
DEVOTION TO THE SACRED HEART 
OF JESUS. Nolden, S.J. net , $1.35. 


9 


DEVOTIONS AND PRAYERS BY 
ST. ALPHONSUS. Ward, net , $1.50. 
DEVOTIONS AND PRAYERS FOR 
THE SICK ROOM. Krebs, net , 
$0.85. 

DEVOTIONS TO THE SACRED 
HEART FOR THE FIRST FRIDAY 
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D$m¥nICAN MISSION BOOK. By a 
Dominican Father. $i.co. 

EPITOME OF THE PRIESTLY LIFE, 
AN. Arvisenet.—O’Sullivan, net , 
$2.50. 

EUCHARISTIC SOUL ELEVATIONS. 

Stadelman, C.S.Sp. net , $0.60. 
FAIREST FLOWER OF PARADISE, 
THE. Lepicier, O.S.M., net , $1.50. 
FIRST SPIRITUAL AID TO THE 
SICK. McGrath, net , $0.60. 
FLOWERS OF THE CLOISTER. Poems. 

de La Motte. net , $i. 75 - _ 

FOR FREQUENT COMMUNICANTS. 

Roche, S.J. Paper, *$0.12. 

GLORIES OF MARY. St. Alphonsus. 
net , $1.75. 

GLORIES OF THE SACRED HEART. 

Hausherr, S.J. net , $1.75-_ 

GREETINGS TO THE CHRIST-CHILD. 
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HELP FOR THE POOR SOULS. Ack- 

ERMANN. $0.90. _ 

HELPS TO A SPIRITUAL LIFE. 

Schneider, net , $0.85. 

HIDDEN TREASURE, THE. St. 

Leonard, net , $0.75. 

HOLY HOUR, THE. Keiley. i6mo. 

▼ 2 

HOLY HOUR OF ADORATION. 

Stang. net , $0.90. ^ „ 

HOLY SOULS BOOK. Reflections on 
Purgatory. A Complete Prayer-Book. 
By Rev. F. X. Lasance. Imitation 
leather, round corners, red edges, $1.50; 
gold edges, $2.00; real leather, gold edges, 
$2.75; Turkey Morocco, limp, gold roll, 

HOLY'VIATICUM OF LIFE AS OF 
DEATH. Dever. net , $1.25. 
IMITATION OF THE SACRED 

in^e/TeTno"# oV-own. 

INTERIOR OF’JESUS AND MARY. 

Grou ST 2 vols. net , $3.00. 

JESUS ’CHRIST THE KING OF OUR 
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LIFE’S' LESSONS. Garesche, S.J. 

LITTLE ALTAR BOYS’ MANUAL. 

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LITTLE MANUAL OF ST. ANTHONY. 

Lasance. net , $0.25- __ Tnct , DTJ 

LITTLE MANUAL OF ST. JOSEPH. 
Lings, net , $0.25. 

LITTLE MANUAL OF ST. RITA. 

McGrath. $0.90. T „ 

LITTLE MASS BOOK, THE. Lynch. 
Paper, *$0.08. 


LITTLE MONTH OF THE SOULS IN 
PURGATORY, net, $0.60. 

LITTLE OFFICE OF THE BLESSED 
VIRGIN MARY. In Latin and Fng- 
lish, net, $1.50; in Latin onl> net, 
$1.25. 

LITTLE OFFICE OF THE IMMACU¬ 
LATE CONCEPTION. Paper, *$0.08. 
MANNA OF THE SOUL. Vest-pocket 
Edition. A Little Book of Prayer for 
Men and Women. By Rev. F. X. 
Lasance. Oblong, 32mo. $0.50. 
MANNA OF THE SOUL. A Book of 
Prayer for Men and Women. By Rev. 

F. X. Lasance. Extra Large Type 
Edition, 544 pages, i6mo. $1.50. 
MANNA OF THE SOUL. Prayer- 
Book by Rev. F. X. Lasance. Thin 
Edition. Im. leather. $1.10. 

MANNA OF THE SOUL. Prayer- 
Book. By Rev. F. X. Lasance. Thin 
Edition with Epistles and Gospels. 

MANUAL OF THE HOLY EUCHAR¬ 
IST. Lasance. Imitation leather, 
limp, red edges, net, $1.25. 

MANUAL OF THE HOLY NAME. 
$0.75. 

MANUAL OF THE SACRED HEART, 
NEW, $1.50. 

MANUAL OF ST. ANTHONY, net, $0.90. 
MARINE COROLLA. Poems. Hill, 
C.P. net, $1.75. 

MARY, HELP OF CHRISTIANS. 

Hammer, O.F.M., net, $3.50. 

MASS DEVOTIONS AND READINGS 
ON THE MASS. Lasance. Im. 
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MEANS OF GRACE. Brennan, net, 

MEDITATIONS FOR ALL THE DAYS 
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net, $8.75. 

MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY IN 
THE MONTH. Nepveu, S.J. net, 

<n* Qw 

MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY 
IN THE YEAR. Baxter, S.J. net, 
$2.00. „ . 

MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY 
IN THE YEAR ON THE LIFE OF 
OUR LORD. Vercruysse, S.J. 2 
vols. net, $4.50. 

MEDITATIONS FOR THE USE OF 
THE SECULAR CLERGY. Chaignon, 
S.J. 2 vols. net , $7.00. 
MEDITATIONS ON THE LIFE, THE 
TEACHING AND THE PASSION 
OF JESUS CHRIST. Ilg-Clarke. 
2 vols. net, $3.00. 

MEDITATIONS ON THE MYSTERIES 
OF OUR HOLY FAITH, Barraud, 
S.T. 2 vols., net, $4.50. 
MEDITATIONS ON THE PASSION OF 
OUR LORD, net, $0.85. 
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INGS OF JESUS CHRIST Per- 
inaldo. net, $0.85. 

MISSION-BOOK OF THE REDEMP- 
TORIST FATHERS $0.90 
MISSION BOOK FOR THE MAR¬ 
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MISSION BOOK FOR THE SINGLE. 
Girardey, C.SS.R. $0.90. 

MISSION REMEMBRANCE OF THE 
REDEMFTORIST FATHERS. 
Geiermann, C.SS.R. $0.90. 

MOMENTS BEFORE THE TABER¬ 
NACLE. Russell, S.J. net, $0.60. 

MORE SHORT SPIRITUAL READ¬ 
INGS FOR MARY’S CHILDREN. 
Cecilia, net, $0.85. 

MOST BELOVED WOMAN, THE. 
Gar.esch£, S.J. net, $1.25. 

MY GOD AND MY ALL. A Prayer- 
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Lasance. Black or white cloth, square 
corners, white edges, retail, $0.35. Imit. 
leather, black or white, seal grain gold 
edges, retail, $0.70. Persian Morocco, 
gold side and edges, retail, $1.25. Same, 
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retail, $1.00; with Indulgence Cross, 
retail, $1.35. 

MY PRAYER-BOOK. Happiness in 
Goodness. Reflections, Counsels, Pray¬ 
ers, and Devotions. By Rev. F. X. 
Lasance. i6mo. Seal grain cloth, 
stiff covers, square corners, red edges, 
$1.25. Imitation leather, limp, round 
corners, red edges, $1.50; gold edges, 
$2.00. Real Leather, $2.50. 

NEW MISSAL FOR EVERY DAY, 
THE. Complete Missal in English 
for Every Day in the Year. With 
Introduction, Notes, and a Book of 
Prayer. By Rev. F. X. Lasance. 
32mo. Imitation leather, $2.25. 

NEW TESTAMENT. nmo edition. 
Large type. Cloth, net, $1.75; 32010 
edition. Flexible, net, $0.45; cloth, net, 
$0 .80., Amer. seal, net, $1.35. 

NEW TESTAMENT AND PRAYER- 
BOOK COMBINED, net, $0.85. 

OFFICE OF HOLY WEEK, COM¬ 
PLETE. Latin and English. Cut 
flush, net, $0.40; silk cloth, net, $0.60; 
Am. seal, red edges, net, $1.25; Am. 
seal, gold edges, net, $1.50. 

OUR FAVORITE DEVOTIONS. Lings. 
net, $1.00. 

OUR FAVORITE NOVENAS. Lings. 
net, $1.00. 

OUTLINE MEDITATIONS. Cecilia. 
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PATHS OF GOODNESS, THE. Gar- 
esche, S.J. net, $1.25. 

POCKET PRAYER-BOOK. Cloth, net, 

POLICEMEN’S AND FIREMEN’S 
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PRAYER-BOOK FOR RELIGIOUS. 
Lasance. i6mo. Imitation leather, 
limp, red edges, net, $2.co. 

PRAYERS FOR OUR DEAD. Mc¬ 
Grath. Cloth, $0.35; im. leather, $0.75. 

PRISONER OF LOVE. Prayer-Book by 
Father Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 
red edges, $1.50. 

PRIVATE RETREAT FOR RELIG¬ 
IOUS. Geiermann, C.SS.R. net, $2.50. 

REFLECTIONS FOR RELIGIOUS. 
Lasance. net, $2.00. 


REJOICE IN THE LORD. Prayer- 
Book by Father Lasance. $1.75. 
ROSARY, THE CROWN OF MARY. 
By a Dominican Father, ibrno, paper, 

*$O.I2. 

RULES OF LIFE FOR THE PASTOR 
OF SOULS. Slater-Rauch. net, $1.50. 
SACRED HEART BOOK. Prayer-Book 
by Father Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 
red edges, $1.25. 

SACRED HEART STUDIED IN THE 
SACRED SCRIPTURES. Saintrain. 
net, $0.85. 

SACRIFICE OF THE MASS WORTH¬ 
ILY CELEBRATED. Chaignon, S.J. 
net, $2.75. 

SECRET OF SANCTITY. Crasset, S.J. 

net, $0.83. 

SERAPHIC GUIDE, THE. $1.00. 
SHORT MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY 
DAY. Lasausse. net, $0.85. 

SHORT VISITS TO THE BLESSED 
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SODALIST’S VADE MECUM, net, 
$0.90. 

SOLDIERS’ AND SAILORS’ COM¬ 
PANION. McGrath. Vest-pocket 
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SOUVENIR OF THE NOVITIATE. 
Taylor, net, $0.85. 

SPIRIT OF SACRIFICE, THE, AND 
THE LIFE OF SACRIFICE IN 
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SPIRITUAL CONSIDERATIONS. 

Buckler, O.P. net, $0.85. 

SPOILING THE DIVINE FEAST. 

de Zulueta, S.J. Paper, *$0.08. 
STORIES FOR FIRST COMMUNI¬ 
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SUNDAY MISSAL, THE. Lasance. 

Im. leather, limp, red edges, $1.50. 
THINGS IMMORTAL, THE. Gar- 
esche, S.J. net, $1.25. 

THOUGHTS ON THE RELIGIOUS 
LIFE. Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 
red edges, net, $2.00; Am. seal, limp, 
gold edges, net, $3.00. 

THOUGHTS AND AFFECTIONS ON 
THE PASSION OF JESUS CHRIST 
FOR EVERY DAY OF THE YEAR. 
Bergamo, net, $3.25. 

TRUE SPOUSE OF CHRIST. Liguori. 
net, $1.75. 

VALUES,EVERLASTING, THE. 

Garesche, S.J. net, $1.25. 
VENERATION OF THE BLESSED 
VIRGIN. Rohner-Brennan. n, $0.85. 
VIGIL HOUR, THE. Ryan, S.J. Paper, 

*$O.I2. 

VISITS TO JESUS IN THE TABER¬ 
NACLE. Lasance. Im. leather, limp, 

•r*»n pr-Jrrpc 'Tf 

VISITS TOTHE S MOST HOLY SACRA¬ 
MENT. Liguori. net, So. 90. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Paper, *$0.08. 
WAY OF THE CROSS. Illustrated. 
Method of Sx. Alphonsus Liguori. 


WAY OF THE CROSS, THE. Very 
large-type edition. Method of Sx. 
Alphonsus Liguori. *$0.20. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. Eucharistic 
^ method. *$0.15. 

WAY OF THE CROSS. By a Jesuit 
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WAY OF THE CROSS. Method of Sx. 

Francis of Assisi. *$0.15. 

WITH GOD. Prayer-Book by Father La- 
sance. Im. leather, limp, red edges $1. 75 - 
YOUNG MAN’S GUIDE, THE. Prayer- 


Book by Faxher Lasance. Seal gram 
Cloth, stiff covers, red edges, $1.25; 
Im. leather, limp, red edges, $1.50; 
gold edges, $2.00. 

YOUR INTERESTS ETERNAL. Gar- 
esche, S.J. net, $1.25. 

YOUR NEIGHBOR AND YOU. Gar- 
esch£, S.J. net, $1.25. _ 

YOUR OWN HEART. GareschE, S.J. 

Y 0 UR $ !' 2 S 6 UL’S SALVATION. Gar- 
esche, S.J. net, $1.25. 


HI. THEOLOGY, LITURGY, HOLY SCRIPTURE, PHILOSOPHY, 
SCIENCE, CANON LAW 


ALTAR PRAYERS. Edition A: Eng¬ 
lish and Latin, net, $i- 75 - Edition B: 
German-English-Latin, net, $2.00. 
ANNOUNCEMENT BOOK. i2mo. 
net, $3.00. 

BAPTISMAL RITUAL. i2mo. »d,$x.so. 
BENEDICENDA. Schulte. net, $2.75. 
BURIAL RITUAL. Cloth, net, $2.50; 

sheepskin, net, $ 3 - 75 - „„„ _ 

CASES OF CONSCIENCE. Slater, 
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CHRIST’S TEACHING CONCERNING 
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CLERGYMAN’S HANDBOOK OF LAW. 

Scanlon, net, $2.25. 

COMBINATION RECORD FOR SMALL 
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COMMENTARY ON THE PSALMS. 
Berry, net, $3.50. 

COMPENDIUM SACRAS LITURGLE. 

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ECCLESIASTICAL DICTIONARY. 

Thein. 4to, half mor. net, $6.50. 
GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIP¬ 
TURES. Gigot. net, ^$4.00. 
GENERAL INTRODUCTION TO THE 
STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIP¬ 
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HOLY^BIBLE, THE. Large type, handy 
size. Cloth, $1.50. 

HYMNS OF THE BREVIARY AND 
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JESUS LIVING IN THE PRIEST- 
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400 pp. half leather, net, $8.00; Pocket 
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MANUAL OF HOMILETICS AND 
CATECHETICS. Schuech-Lueber- 
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MANUAL OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 

Slater. S.J. 2 vols. net, $8.00. 
marriage legislation in the 
NEW CODE. Ayrinhac, S.S. net, 
$2.50. 


MARRIAGE RITUAL. Cloth, gilt edges, 
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MESSAGE OF MOSES AND MODERN 
HIGHER CRITICISM. Gigot. Paper. 
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MISSALE ROMANUM. Benziger 
Brothers’ Authorized Vatican Edition. 
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MORAL PRINCIPLES AND MED¬ 
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OUTLINES OF NEW TESTAMENT 
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PENAL LEGISLATION IN THE NEW 
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PEW COLLECTION AND RECEIPT 
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PHILOSOPHIA MORALI, DE. Russo, 
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PREPARATION FOR MARRIAGE. 

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PRAXIS SYNODALIS. Manuale Sy- 
nodi Diocesanse ac Provincial^ Cele- 
brandse. net, $1.00. ' 

QUESTIONS OF MORAL THEOLOGY. 

Slater, S.J. net, $3-oo. 

RECORD OF BAPTISMS. 200 pages, 
700 entries, net, $7.00; 400 pages, 1400 
entries, net, $9.00; 600 pages, 2100 

RECORD "^F 12 CONFIRMATIONS. 

RECORDOF first communions. 

net, $6.00. 

RECORD OF INTERMENTS. net, 
$6.00. 

RECORD OF MARRIAGES. 200 
pages, 700 entries, net, $7,00.; 400 pages, 
1400 entries, net, $9.00; 600 pages, 
2100 entries, net, $12.00. 

RITUALE COMPENDIOSUM. Cloth, 

net, $1.25; seal, net, $2.00. . . 

SHORT HISTORY OF MORAL THE¬ 
OLOGY. Slater, S.J. net, $0.75. 


5 


SPECIAL INTRODUCTION TO THE TEXTUAL CONCORDANCE OF THE 
STUDY OF THE OLD TESTAMENT. HOLY SCRIPTURES. Williams. 
Gigot. Part I. net , ^$2.75. Part II. net , $5.75. 

net , W3.25. WHAT CATHOLICS HAVE DONE 

SPIRAGO’S METHOD OF CHRISTIAN FOR SCIENCE. Brennan. net, 
DOCTRINE. Messmer. net , $2.50. $1.50. 


IV. SERMONS 


CHRISTIAN MYSTERIES. Bono- 
melli, D.D.-Byrne. 4 vols., net , $9.00. 
EIGHT-MINUTE SERMONS. De- 
mouy. 2 vols., net . $4.co. 

HOMILIES ON THE COMMON OF 
SAINTS. Bonomelli-Byrne. 2 vols., 
net , $4.50. 

HOMILIES ON THE EPISTLES AND 
GOSPELS. Bonomelli-Byrne. 4 vols. 
net , $9.00. 

MASTER’S WORD, THE, IN THE 
EPISTLES AND GOSPELS. Flynn. 

2 vols., net , $4.00. 

POPULAR SERMONS ON THE CAT¬ 
ECHISM. Bamberg-Thurston, S.J. 

3 vols., net , $8.50. 

SERMONS. Canon Sheehan, net , $3.00. 
SERMONS FOR CHILDREN’S MASSES. 

Frassinetti-Lings. net , $2.50. 
SERMONS FOR THE SUNDAYS 
AND CHIEF FESTIVALS OF THE 
ECCLESIASTICAL YEAR. Poxi- 
GEISSER, S.J. 2 vols., net , $5.00. 


SERMONS ON OUR BLESSED LADY. 
Flynn, net , $2.50. 

SERMONS ON THE BLESSED SAC¬ 
RAMENT. Scheurer-Lasance. net , 
$2.50. 

SERMONS ON THE CHIEF CHRIS¬ 
TIAN VIRTUES. Hunolt-Wirth. net , 
$2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE DUTIES OF 
CHRISTIANS. Hunolt-Wirth. net , 
$2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE FOUR LAST 
THINGS. Hunolt-Wirth. net , $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE SEVEN DEADLY 
SINS. Hunolt-Wirth. net , $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE VIRTUE AND 
THE SACRAMENT OF PENANCE. 
PIunolt-Wirth. net , $2.75. 

SERMONS ON THE MASS, THE SAC¬ 
RAMENTS AND THE SACRA- 
MENTALS. Flynn, net, $2.75. 


V. HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF ST. IGNA¬ 
TIUS LOYOLA. O’Connor, S.J. net , 

7 5 

CAMILLUS DE LELLIS. By a Sister 
qf Mercy, net , $1.75. 

CHILD’S LIFE OF ST. JOAN OF 
ARC. Mannix. net , $1.50. 

GROWTH AND DEVELOPMENT OF 
THE CATHOLIC SCHOOL SYS¬ 
TEM IN THE UNITED STATES. 
Burns, C.S.C. net , $2.50. 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 

CHURCH. Brueck. 2 vols., net , 
$ 5 - 5 °- 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 

CHURCH. Businger-Brennan. net , 

$ 3 - 50 . 

HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC 

CHURCH. Businger-Brennan. net , 
m°.7S. 

HISTORY OF THE PROTESTANT 
REFORMATION. Cobbett-Gas- 
quet. net , $0.85. 

HISTORY OF THE MASS. O’Brien. 
net , $2.00. 

HOLINESS OF THE CHURCH IN THE 
NINETEENTH CENTURY. Kempf, 
S.J. net , $2.75. 

LIFE OF ST. MARGARET MARY 
ALACOQUE Illustrated. Bougaud. 
net $2.75. 


HAGIOLOGY, TRAVEL 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Businger-Brennan, 
Illustrated. Half morocco, gilt edges, 
net , $15.00. 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Illustrated. Bus- 
inger-Mullett. net , $3.50. 

LIFE OF CHRIST. Cochem. net , $0.85. 

LIFE OF ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA. 
Genelli. S.J. net , $0.85. 

LIFE OF MADEMOISELLE LE 
GRAS, net , $0.85. 

LIFE OF POPE PIUS X. Illustrated. 
net , $3.50. 

LIFE OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN. 
Rohner. net , $0.85. 

LITTLE LIVES OF THE SAINTS FOR 
CHILDREN. Berthold. net , $0.75. 

LITTLE PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE 
SAINTS. With 400 illustrations, net , 
$2.00. 

LIVES OF THE SAINTS. Butler 
Paper, $0.25; cloth, net , $0.85. 

LOURDES. Clarke, S.T. net , $0.85. 

MARY THE QUEEN. By a Religious. 
net , $0.60. 

MIDDLE AGES, THE. Shahan. «, $3.00. 

MILL TOWN PASTOR, A. Conroy, 
S.J. net , $1.75. 

NAMES THAT LIVE IN CATHOLIC 
HEARTS. Sadlisr. net , $0.85. 

OUR OWN ST. RITA. Corcoran, 
O.S.A. net , $1.50. 


6 


PATRON SAINTS FOR CATHOLIC 
YOUTH. Mannix. Each life separately 
in attractive colored paper cover with 
illustration on front cover. Each, io 
cents postpaid; per 25 copies, assorted, 
net, $1.75; per 100 copies, assorted, 
net, $6.75. Sold only in packages con¬ 
taining 5 copies of one title. 

For Boys: St. Joseph; St. Aloysius; St. 

Anthony; St. Bernard; St. Martin; 

St. Michael; Sc. Francis Xavier; St. 

Patrick; St. Charles; St. Philip. 

The above can be had bound in 1 vol¬ 
ume, cloth, net, $1.00. 

For Girls: St. Ann; St. Agnes; St. 

Teresa; St. Rose of Lima; St. Cecilia; 

St. Helena; St. Bridget; St. Catherine; 

St. Elizabeth; St. Margaret. 

The above can be had bound in 1 vol¬ 
ume, cloth, net, $1.00. 

PICTORIAL LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 
With nearly 400 illustrations and over 
600 pages, net, $5.00. 

POPULAR LIFE OF ST. TERESA. 
L’abb£ Joseph, net, $0.85. 

PRINCIPLES ORIGIN AND ESTAB¬ 
LISHMENT OF THE CATHOLIC 
SCHOOL SYSTEM IN THE UNITED 
STATES. Burns, C.S.C. net, $2.50. 

RAMBLES IN CATHOLIC LANDS. 
Barrett, O.S.B. Illustrated, net, $3.50. 


ROMA. Pagan Subterranean and Mod-' 
ern Rome in Word and Picture. By 
Rev. Albert Kuhn, O.S.B., D.D. 
Preface by Cardinal Gibbons. 617 
pages. 744 illustrations. 48 full-page 
inserts, 3 plans of Rome in colors, 8| 
X12 inches. Red im. leather, gold 
side, net, $12.00 

ROMAN CURIA AS IT NOW EXISTS. 
Martin, S.J. net, $2.50. 

ST. ANTHONY. Ward, net, $0.85. 

ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI. Dubois, 
S.M. net, $0.85. 

ST. JOAN OF ARC. Lynch, S.J. Illus¬ 
trated. net, $2.75. 

ST. JOHN BERCHMANS. Dele- 
haye, S.J. -Semple, S.J. net, $1.50. 

SAINTS AND PLACES. By John 
Ayscough. Illustrated, net, $3.00. 

SHORT LIVES OF THE SAINTS. 
Donnelly, net, $0.90. 

STORY OF THE DIVINE CHILD. 
Told for Children. Lings, net, $0.60. 

STORY OF THE ACTS OF THE APOS¬ 
TLES. Lynch, S.J. Illustrated, net, 
$2.75. 

WOMEN OF CATHOLICITY. Sadlier. 
net, $0.85. 

WONDER STORY, THE. Taggart. 
Illustrated. Board covers, we<, $0.25; 
per 100, $22.50. Also an edition in 
French and Polish at same price. 


VI. JUVENILES 


FATHER FINN’S BOOKS. 

Each, net, $1.00. 

ON THE RUN. 

BOBBY IN MOVIELAND. 

FACING DANGER. 

HIS LUCKIEST YEAR. A Sequel to 
“Lucky Bob.” 

LUCKY BOB. 

PERCY WYNN; OR, MAKING A 
BOY OF HIM. 

TOM PLAYFAIR; OR, MAKING A 
START 

CLAUDE' LIGHTFOOT; OR, HOW 
THE PROBLEM WAS SOLVED. 
HARRY DEE; OR, WORKING IT 


OUT. 

ETHELRED PRESTON; OR, THE 
ADVENTURES OF A NEWCOMER. 
THE BEST FOOT FORWARD; AND 
OTHER STORIES. 

“ BUT THY LOVE AND THY 
GRACE.” 

CUPID OF CAMPION. 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME, AND 
WHAT CAME OF IT. 

THE FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEAR- 

MOStS BOYS. SHORT STORIES. 


FATHER SPALDING’S BOOKS. 

Each, net, $1.00. 

SIGNALS FROM THE BAY TREE. 
HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE SANDHILLS. 
THE CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. 


THE SHERIFF OF THE BEECH 
FORK. 

THE CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. 
THE RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. 
THE MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS. 
THE OLD MILL ON THE WITH- 
ROSE. 

THE SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER 

ADVENTURE WITH THE APACHES. 

Ferry, net, $0.60. 

ALTHEA. Nird linger, net, $0.85. 

AS GOLD IN THE FURNACE. Copus, 
S.J. net, $1.25. 

AS TRUE AS GOLD. Mannix. net, 
$0.60. 

AT THE FOOT OF THE SANDHILLS. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.00. 

BELL FOUNDRY. Schaching, net, $0.60. 
BERKLEYS. THE. Wight, net, $0.60. 
BEST FOOT FORWARD, THE. Finn, 
S.J. net, $1.00. 

BETWEEN FRIENDS. Aumerle. net, 
$0.85. 

BISTOURI. Melandri. net, $0.60. 
BLISSYLVANIA POST-OFFICE. Tag¬ 
gart. net, $0.60. 

BOBBY IN MOVIELAND. Finn, SJ. 

net, $1.00. 

BOB O’LINK. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
BROWNIE AND I. Aumerle. net, $0.85. 
BUNT AND BILL. Mulholland. net, 

(5o 

“ BUT THY LOVE AND THY GRACE.” 

Finn. S.J. net, $1.00. 

BY BRANS COME RIVER. Taggart. 
net, $0.60, 


1 


CAMP BY COPPER RIVER. Spalding, 
S.J. net, $1.00. 

CAPTAIN TED. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 
CAVE BY THE BEECH FORK. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net, $1.00. 

CHILDREN OF CUP A. Mannix. net, 
$0.60. 

CHILDREN OF THE LOG CABIN. 

Delamare. net, $0.85. 

CLARE LORAINE. “Lee.” net, $0.85. 
CLAUDE LIGHTFOOT. Finn, S.J. net , 
$1.00. 

COBRA ISLAND. Boyton, S.J. net, 
$1.15. 

CUBA REVISITED. Mannix. net, $0.60. 
CUPID OF CAMPION. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

DADDY DAN. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
DEAR FRIENDS. Nirdlinger. n, $0.85. 
DIMPLING’S SUCCESS. Mulholland. 
net, $0.60. 

ETHELRED PRESTON. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

EVERY-DAY GIRL, AN. Crowley, net, 
$0.60. 

FACING DANGER. Finn, S.J. net, 
$1.00. 

FAIRY OF THE SNOWS. Finn, S.J. 
net . $1.00. 

FINDING OF TONY. Waggaman. net, 
$1.25. 

FIVE BIRDS IN A NEST. Delamare. 
net, $0.85. 

FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. By a Reli¬ 
gious. net, $0.85. 

FLOWER OF THE FLOCK. Egan, net, 
$1.25. 

FOR THE WHITE ROSE. Hinkson. 
net, $0.60. 

FRED’S LITTLE DAUGHTER. Smith. 
net, $0.60. 

FREDDY CARR’S ADVENTURES. 

Garrold, S.J. net, $0.85. 

FREDDY CARR AND HIS FRIENDS. 

Garrold, S.J. net, $0.85. 

GOLDEN LILY, THE. Hinkson. net, 
$0.60. 

GREAT CAPTAIN, THE. Hinkson. net, 
$0.60. 

HALDEMAN CHILDREN, THE. Man¬ 
nix. net, $0.60. 

HARMONY FLATS. Whitmire, net, 
$0.85. 

HARRY DEE. Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
HARRY RUSSELL. Copos, S.J. net, 

HEIR ^ OF DREAMS, AN. O’Malley. 
net, $0.60. 

HELD IN THE EVERGLADES. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.00. 

HIS FIRST AND LAST APPEARANCE. 

Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 

HIS LUCKIEST YEAR, Finn. S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

HOSTAGE OF WAR, A. Bonesteel. 

net, $0.60. 

HOW THEY WORKED THEIR WAY. 
Egan, net, $0.85. 

in quest of Adventure, man¬ 
nix. net, $0.60. 

IN QUEST OF THE GOLDEN CHEST. 
Barton, net, $0.85. 


JACK. By a Religious, H.CJ. net f 

$0.60. 

JACK-O’LANTERN. Waggaman. net, 
$0.60. 

JACK HILDRETH ON THE NILE. 

Taggart, net, $0.85. 

JUNIORS OF ST. BEDE’S. Bryson. 

net, $0.85. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. First 
Series. net, $0.85. 

JUVENILE ROUND TABLE. Second 
Series, net, $0.85. 

KLONDIKE PICNIC, A. Donnelly. 
net, $0.85. 

LEGENDS AND STORIES OF THE 
HOLY CHILD JESUS, Lutz, net, 
$0.85. 

LITTLE APOSTLE ON CRUTCHES. 

Delamare. net, $0.60. 

LITTLE GIRL FROM BACK EAST. 

Roberts, net, $0.60. 

LITTLE LADY OF THE HALL. Rye- 
man. net, $0.60. 

LITTLE MARSHALLS AT THE LAKE. 

Nixon-Roulet. net, $0.85. 

LITTLE MISSY. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
LOYAL BLUE AND ROYAL SCAR¬ 
LET. Taggart, net, $1.25. 

LUCKY BOB. Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
MADCAP SET AT ST. ANNE’S. Bru- 
nowe. net, $0.60. 

MAD KNIGHT, THE. Schaching. net, 

$.0.60. 

MAKING OF MORTLAKE. Copus, S.J. 
net, $1.25. 

MAN FROM NOWHERE. Sadlier. 

net, $0.85. 

MARKS OF THE BEAR CLAWS. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.00. 

MARY TRACY’S FORTUNE. Sad¬ 
lier. net, $0.60. 

MILLY AVELING. Smith, net, $0.85. 
MIR ALDA. Johnson, net, $0.60. 

MORE FIVE O’CLOCK STORIES. 

By a Religious, net, $0. 85. 

MOSTLY BOYS, Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
MYSTERIOUS DOORWAY. Sadlier. 
net, So.Go. 

MYSTERY OF HORNBY HALL. 

Sadlier. net, $0.85. 

MYSTERY OF CLEVERLY. Barton. 

net, $0.85. 

NAN NOBODY. Waggaman. net, $0.60. 
NED RIEDER. Wehs. net, $o.8s. 

NEW SCHOLAR AT ST. ANNE’S. 

Brunowe. net, $0.85. 

OLD CHARLMONT’S SEED-BED. 
Smith, net, $0.60. 

OLD MILL ON THE WITHROSE. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.00. 

ON THE OLD CAMPING GROUND. 

Mannix. net, $0.85. 

ON THE RUN. Finn, S. J. net, $i.o*. 
PANCHO AND PAN CHITA. Mannix. 
net, So. 60. 

PAULINE ARCHER Sadlier. net, $0.60. 
PERCY WYNN. Finn, S.J. net, $1.00. 
PERIL OF DIONYSIO. Mannix. net, 

$0.60. 

PETRONILLA. Donnelly, net, $0.85. 
PICKLE AND PEPPER. Dorsey, net, 
$1.25. 


8 


PILGRIM FROM IRELAND. Carnot. 

PLAYVVATER PLOT, THE. Wagga- 
man. net, $1.25. 

POLLY DAY’S ISLAND. Roberts, net, 

POVERINA. Buckenham. net, $0.85. 
QUEEN’S PAGE, THE. Hinkson. net, 

QUEEN’S PROMISE, THE. Wagga- 

MAN fid Si 2 v 

QUEST OF MARY SELWYN. Clem- 
entxa. net, $1.50. 

RACE FOR COPPER ISLAND. Spald- 

RECRUIT TOMMY°’COLLINS. Bone- 

ROMANCe'oF°THE SILVER SHOON. 

Bearne, S.J. net, $1.25. 

ST. CUTHBERT’S. Copus, S.J. net, 

SANDY JOE. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 
SEA-GULL’S ROCK. Sandeau. net, 

SEVEN LITTLE MARSHALLS. 

Nixon-Roulet. net, $0.60. 

SHADOWS LIFTED. Copus, S.J. net, 

SHERIFF OF THE BEECH FORK. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.00. 
SHIPMATES. Waggaman. net, $1.25. 
SIGNALS FROM THE BAY TREE. 

Spalding, S.J. net, $1.00. 

STRONG ARM OF AVALON. Wag¬ 
gaman. net, $1.25. 

SUGAR CAMP AND AFTER. Spald¬ 
ing, S.J. net, $1.00. 


SUMMER AT WOODVILLE. Sadlier. 
net, $0.60. _ 

TALES AND LEGENDS OF THE 
MIDDLE AGES, oe Capella. net, 
$0.85. 

TALISMAN, THE. Sadlier. net, $0.85. 

TAMING OF POLLY. Dorsey, net, 

THAT FOOTBALL GAME. Finn, S.J. 
net, $1.00. 

THAT OFFICE BOY. Finn, S.J. net, 
Si.00. 

THREE GIRLS AND ESPECIALLY 
ONE. Taggart, net, $0.60. 

TOLD IN THE TWILIGHT. Salome. 
net, $0.85. 

TOM LOSELY; BOY. Copus, S.J. net, 

T0M 2 PLAYFAIR. Finn. S.J. net, $1.00. 

TOM’S LUCK-POT. Waggaman. net, 

TOORALLADDY. Walsh, net, $0.60. 

TRANSPLANTING OF TESSIE. Wag- 

TREASURE^’ OF S ’NUGGET MOUN¬ 
TAIN. Taggart, net, $0.85. 

TWO LITTLE GIRLS. Mack, net, 

UNCLE FRANK’S MARY. Clemen- 
tia net Si. 50. 

UPS 'AND DOWNS OF MARJORIE. 
Waggaman. net, $0.60. 

VIOLIN MAKER. Smith, net, S0.60. 

WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT. 
Taggart, net, $0.85. 

YOUNG COLOR GUARD. Bonesteel, 
net, $0.60. 


VII. NOVELS 


ISABEL C. CLARKE’S GREAT 
NOVELS. Each, net, $2.00. 

CARINA. 

AVERAGE CABINS. „ _ XT 

THE LIGHT ON THE LAGOON. 
THE POTTER’S HOUSE. 
TRESSIDER’S SISTER. 

URSULA FINCH. 

THE ELSTONES. 

LADYTRENT’S DAUGHTER. 
CHILDREN OF EVE. 

THE DEEP HEART. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. 

FINE CLAY. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS. 

THE REST HOUSE. 

ONLY ANNE. 

THE SECRET CITADEL. 

BY THE BLUE RIVER. 

ALBERTA: ADVENTURESS. L’Er- 
mite. 8 vo. net, $2.00. 

AVERAGE CABINS. Clarke. net,% 2.00. 
BACK TO THE WORLD. Champol. 

net, $2.00. . . 

BARRIER. THE. Bazin, net, $l 6 S- 
BALLADS OF CHILDHOOD. Poems. 

BLACK’’BROTHERHOOD, THE. Gar- 
rold, S.J. net, $2.00. 

BOND AND FREE. Connor, net, $0.85- 


BUNNY’S HOUSE. Walker, net, $2.00. 
BY THE BLUE RIVER. Clarke. 
net, $2.00. 

CARINA. Clarke. net,% 2.00. 
CARROLL DARE. Waggaman. «, $0-85. 
CIRCUS-RIDER’S DAUGHTER. 

Bracked, net, $0.85. 

CHILDREN OF EVE. Clarke, n, *2.00. 
CONNOR D’ARCY’S STRUGGLES. 

Bertholds. net, $0.85. 

CORINNE’S VOW. Waggaman. net, 

DAUGHTER OF KINGS, A. Hinkson. 

DEEP $2 HEART, THE. Clarke, net, 

DENYS THE DREAMER. Hinkson. 

DION AND THE SIBYLS. Keon. net, 

ELDER MISS AINSBOROUGH, THE. 

Taggart, net, $0.85. 

ELSTONES, THE. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
EUNICE. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
FABIOLA. Wiseman, net, $0.85. 
FABIOLA’S SISTERS. Clarke. «, $0.85. 
FATAL BEACON, THE. Bracked. 

net, $0.85. J * 

FAUSTULA. Ayscough. net, $2.00. 
FINE CLAY. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
FLAME OF THE FOREST. Bishop. 
net, $2.00. 


FORGIVE AND FORGET. Lingen. 

net, $0.85. 

GRAPES OF THORNS. Waggaman. 

net, $0.85. 

HEART OF A MAN. Maher. net,$2.00. 
HEARTS OF GOLD. Edkor. net, $0.85. 
HEIRESS OF CRONENSTEIN. Hahn- 
Hahn. net, $0.85. 

HER BLIND FOLLY. Holt, net, $0.85. 
HER FATHER’S DAUGHTER. Hink- 
son. net, $2.00. 

HER FATHER’S SHARE. Power, net, 
$0.85. 

HER JOURNEY’S END. Cooke, net, 

80.85. 

IDOLS; or THE SECRET OF THE 
RUE CHAUSSE D’ANTIN. de Nav- 
ery. net , $0.85. 

IN GOD’S GOOD TIME. Ross, net, 

80.85. 

IN SPITE OF ALL. Stanieorth, net, 

80.85. 

IN THE DAYS OF KING HAL. Tag¬ 
gart. net, 80.85. 

IVY HEDGE, THE. Egan, net , 82.00. 
KIND HEARTS AND CORONETS. 

Harrison, net, 80.85. 

LADY TRENT’S DAUGHTER. 
Clarke, net, 82.00. 

LIGHT OF HIS COUNTENANCE. 
Hart, net, $0.85. 

LIGHT ON THE LAGOON, THE. 
Clarke, net, $2.00. 

“LIKE UNTO A MERCHANT.” Gray. 
net, 82.00. 

LITTLE CARDINAL. Parr, net, 81.65. 
LOVE OF BROTHERS. Hinkson. net, 
82.00. 

MARCELLA GRACE. Mulholland. 
net, 80.85. 

MARIE OF THE PIOUSE D’ANTERS. 

Earls, S.J. net, 82.00. 

MARIQUITA. Ayscough. net, 82.00. 
MELCHIOR OF BOSTON. Earls, S.J. 
net, 80.85. 

MIGHTY FRIEND, THE. L’Ermite. 
net, 82.00. 

MIRROR OF SHALOTT. Benson, net, 
82.00. 

MISS ERIN. Francis, net, 80.85. 

MR. BILLY BUTTONS. Lecky. n, 81.65. 
MONK’S PARDON, THE. de Navery. 
net, 80.85. 

MY LADY BEATRICE. Cooke, net, 
$0.85. 

NOT A JUDGMENT. Keon. ^,81.65. 
ONLY ANNE. Clarke, net, 82.00. 
OTHER MISS LISLE. Martin. ^,$0.85. 
OUT OF BONDAGE. Holt, net, 80.85. 
OUTLAW OF CAMARGUE. de La- 
mothe. net, 80.85. 

PASSING SHADOWS. Yorke. net, 
_ 81.65. 

PERE MONNIER’S WARD. Lecky. 
net, 81.65. 

POTTER’S HOUSE, THE. Clarke. 
net, 82.00. 

PRISONERS’ YEARS. Clarke, net, 
82.00. 

PRODIGAL’S DAUGHTER, THE, AND 
OTHER STORIES. Bugg. net, $1.50. 
PROPHET’S WIFE. Browne, net, 81.25. 


RED INN OF ST. LYPHAR. Sadli. 2 *. 

net, $0.85. 

REST HOUSE, THE. Clarke, net, 82.00. 
ROSE OF THE WORLD. Martin, net, 

80.85. 

ROUND TABLE OF AMERICAN 
CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, net, 80 85. 
ROUND TABLE OF FRENCH CATH¬ 
OLIC NOVELISTS, net, 80.85. 
ROUND TABLE OF GERMAN CATH¬ 
OLIC NOVELISTS, net, 80.85. 
ROUND TABLE OF IRISH AND ENG¬ 
LISH CATHOLIC NOVELISTS, net, 

80.85. 

RUBY CROSS, THE. Wallace, net, 

80.85. 

RULER OF THE KINGDOM. Keon. 

net, 81.65. 

SECRET CITADEL, THE. Clarke. 

net, $2.00. 

SECRET OF THE GREEN VASE. 

Cooke, net, 80.85. 

SHADOW OF EVERSLEIGH. Lans- 
downe. net, 80.85. 

SHIELD OF SILENCE. Henry-Rue- 
fin. net, $2.00. 

SO AS BY FIRE. Connor, net, 80.85. 
SON OF SIRO, THE. Copus, S.J. net, 
82.00. 

STORY OF CECILIA, THE. Hinkson. 
net, 81.65. 

STUOrE. Earls, S.J. net, 81.50. 
TEMPEST OF THE HEART. Gray. 

net, $0.85. 

TEST OF COURAGE. Ross, net, 80.85. 
TPIAT MAN’S DAUGHTER. Ross, net, 

80.85. 

THEIR CHOICE. Skinner, net, 80.85. 
THROUGH THE DESERT. Sienkie- 
wicz. net, 82.00. 

TIDEWAY, THE. Ayscough. net, 82.00. 
TRESSIDER’S SISTER. Clarke, net, 

$2.00. 

TRUE STORY OF MASTER GERARD. 
Sadlier. net, 81.65. 

TURN OF THE TIDE, THE. Gray. 

net, 80.85. 

UNBIDDEN GUEST, THE. Cooke. 

net, 80.85. 

UNDER THE CEDARS AND THE 
STARS. Canon Sheehan, net, 82.00. 
UNRAVELING OF A TANGLE, THE. 

Taggart, net, 81.25. 

UP IN ARDMUIRLAND. Barrett, 
O.S.B. net, 81-65. 

URSULA FINCH. Clarke, net, $2.00. 
VOCATION OF EDWARD CONWAY, 
THE. Egan, net, 81.65. 

WARGRAVE TRUST, THE. Reid, net, 
81.65. 

WAR MOTHERS. Poems. Garesche, 
S.J. net, 80.60. 

WAY THAT LED BEYOND, THE. 

Harrison, net, 80.85. 

WEDDING BELLS OF GLENDA- 
LOUGH, THE. Earls, S.J. net, 82.00. 
WHEN LOVE IS STRONG. Keon 
net, $1.65. 

WHOSE NAME IS LEGION. Clarke. 
net, 82.00. 

WOMAN OF FORTUNE, A. Reid, net t 

81.65. 


10 














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BEC 3 0 1924 











































































































































































































